


Bound by Blood

by notFieryPen37 (orphan_account)



Series: Sands of Time Trilogy [3]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/notFieryPen37
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third Book of the Sands of Time Trilogy, posted with permission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it took so long to find the time to begin posting this last book. It really does take a long time, and there are many things that must come first on my to-do list, and my spare time is limited. Even my own fan fiction doesn't get a tenth of the love as I want to give it.

Golden sunlight crept stealthily across lush carpet, hovering warm and honeyed a few inches from the foot from her bed. Bulma Briefs allowed a smug smile of satisfaction to touch her lips, both at the rousing success of Capsule Corp’s company cookout last night and the subsequent midnight activities with Vegeta. He had been so relaxed, nearly social at the party, even to Goku. Then again, Vegeta had changed since the Buu debacle. A narrow, rocky road led to this contentment and Bulma thanked the powers that be for it.

 

Gently, she extracted herself from her husband’s warm embrace and rose, tugging on her favorite silk robe embroidered with chrysanthemums. Looking down at his sleeping form, Bulma’s heart squeezed with a bewildering mixture of heart-breaking tenderness, lust: fierce and hot enough to withstand rejection after rejection in the eighteen years since she had first lured him to her bed. And love. Love so deep it was nearly pain.

 

Every year with him was thanks to her, the Bulma of that terrible future timeline where all her loved ones died in a horrible battle. Trunks, who had grown up with his parents, grown up in peace and her precious, precocious Bra, the inquisitive and bright child who was her light and laughter.

 

Bulma thought of her other self often, wondered what she would say of the choices she had made. More than anything, Bulma wanted to thank her, for her ingenuity and her bravery. Bulma often wondered if she herself would have the courage to part with her son, to send him across time armed with only that vague, uncertain, wonderful thing called hope. She wandered to the window and, brushing aside French lace curtains that Vegeta despised, peered into the limpid blue of Earth’s sky. Cluttered, mundane thoughts began to crowd her mind, and Bulma gnawed on her lower lip, thinking hard.

 

All contemplation vanished like a puff of smoke in the wind as an orb of white light exploded a few hundred feet above her. Bulma screamed, and half a second later Vegeta was beside her, roused either by her cry or the disturbance outside. Tension hummed through the powerful lines of his naked body and his arm went around her, shoving her behind him as his black eyes followed the tiniest change in trajectory of . . . of whatever it was. The nimbus of light faded and the red hot, smoldering hull of a ship appeared, seemingly dripping light.

 

“What the hell--?” Vegeta growled.

 

“Is it . . . is it Future Trunks?” Bulma asked. She didn’t like the hard set of his features, the coldness in his eyes, so like the early years of their relationship, when even the slightest whim would change his tenderness to scorn. Sunlight gilded the sharp planes of his face and he shook his head in a quick jerk.

 

“That is his ship, but no, Trunks is not inside. It’s someone . . . else.”

 

“Well,” Bulma said, shaking off his restraining arm, “let’s go see who it is!”

 

 

 

 

She had obviously been fighting very hard recently: smears of soot and dried blood colored otherwise perfect olive skin and splattered on the dented white armor she wore over her chest. One arm-strap crumbled, and sagged off her shoulder. With a practiced eye, Bulma noted that the girl herself was not injured, save for a livid burn high on her left arm. She had been crying recently, tracks were cut in the filth on her face from tears and Bulma’s heart contracted in sympathy. Instinctively Bulma knew it wasn’t from any physical pain. This girl stood like a soldier, indifferent to the burn, standing erect with a weary numbness Bulma recognized from the aftermath of a thousand battles where her men stayed standing by a sheer force of will to salve their pride.   Warriors in Bulma’s experience were indifferent to the petty sensations of their flesh. 

 

The battlesuit she wore, black instead of Vegeta’s navy, was tattered, and glimpses of elegant feet peeked from the dotted holes in her boots. If her clothing and carriage were not enough to proclaim her heritage, the tail curled around her waist dispelled any doubt. Vegeta eyed her with frank curiosity and vague, instinctive mistrust, but Bulma could see the joy at the prospect of a Saiyan female.

 

Bulma’s eyes roved over her critically. She was young, early to mid twenties. Nor was she full blood. Her eyes were blue and her black hair lacked the defiant Saiyan spikes, but fell like tousled silk down to frame her face. There was something familiar in the severe, beautiful angles of the girl’s face, something heart wrenching in her tired bearing.

 

She bore this scrutiny without moving or making a sound, as if afraid of spooking them. She, in turn, studied them with equal frankness. Her blue eyes met Bulma’s and she was struck by the anguish in them, swirling, lonely pain that made tears well in Bulma’s eyes, and urged her to embrace this poor, forlorn child.   

 

“Who are you, girl?” Vegeta asked gruffly, but there was an odd note of tenderness in the rusty baritone. He saw it too, then, and felt strange kinship. The girl flinched at this question, and her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifted in a very Vegeta-like flick. Meeting his gaze, she said nothing. 

 

“It’s all right, hun,” Bulma said softly, “tell us your name.”

 

The softly spoken words broke her flimsy defiance and she suddenly looked very young, and near tears. The living veil of her hair fell forward in black tangles to shield her face.

 

“Rudaiya,” she whispered, her voice a soft, smoky timbre, hoarsened further by weeping, battle and stress.

 

“What are you doing here, Rudaiya?” Bulma asked calmly, fisting her hands at her sides to keep from combing this child’s hair in tenderness and sympathy. Her blue eyes flashed like living ice, glittering with unshed tears, her diffidence fleeing with the reminder of her purpose.

 

“I need the dragonballs,” she stated firmly, looking sharply at them, daring them to object. The words were brave but Bulma caught an almost childish rebelliousness in her, as if she expected them to reprimand her, as if they had the power to do so.   

 

Bulma opened her mouth to say that they were inactive at the moment, when an extraordinary change moved over her face. Blood drained from her face, her eyes and mouth rounded in shock. Rudaiya cried out, her blue eyes fixed on something. Bulma turned to follow her gaze and saw Trunks standing in the dew-soaked grass, tense and ready to face this unknown enemy. In a blur and _whoosh_ of air, Rudaiya flew past Bulma and tackled Trunks, babbling incoherently in a language she couldn’t understand. Bulma felt the absurd urge to laugh. At seventeen, her son stood an inch or so over six feet with his father’s rugged, dangerous good looks; already he had to beat girls off with a stick. 

 

She hadn’t attacked him, that much Bulma could see through the tangle of limbs. No, she was embracing him, clinging to him with all her strength, sobbing. Vegeta managed to pry her off, hauling her up by the scruff of her neck. He answered her sharply in the same language. Saiyago, Bulma realized with a jolt, the dead language of his people. Shaking and heartsick, the girl answered, and collapsed against Vegeta, arms and tail wound around him as her shoulders shook with sobs. Visibly shaken, Vegeta stood there, his arms full of weeping woman, and patted her back distractedly.

 

“What did she say?” Trunks demanded, confused. Vegeta’s corded throat flexed as he swallowed. Meeting his son’s gaze gravely, he said, “She keeps saying that she needs the dragonballs. She says no one else can help her.”

 

A strange, wry smirk quirked his mouth, completely devoid of mirth.

 

“You have some explaining to do, brat. Trunks, this is Rudaiya. She says that she’s your daughter.”

<^>

 

**Planet Vegeta- Seven Years Earlier**

Her mentor’s pale hand wrapped around her ankle, halting her upward progress cold. Stopped cold. Heh. Rudaiya’s mouth quirked in a smirk worthy of her forefathers. From the look in Zul-sensei’s blood red eyes, she knew that he wouldn’t appreciate the pun.

 

“Not so fast, little monkey. We haven’t finished our training session,” he crooned. Lazily, Zul-sensei slammed her face first in the snow of Planet Vegeta’s lone ice cap, in the northernmost pole. Cold needles stabbed her face and she unconsciously raised her ki to warm herself before instinct took over; she rolled to one side, missing the blow of his alabaster fist by inches. It was a familiar dance of give and take, one they had practiced a thousand times in the past handful of years.

 

Mustering up her flagging strength, she braced her hands in the crusty layers snow and drove both heels up into Zul-sensei’s face. His head snapped back and he staggered a half step. She leapt forward, landing a quick blow to the belly, then a sharp sweep, knocking his legs from under him.

 

Rudaiya felt a moment’s grim satisfaction. They’d been at it since before the sun’s light had touched the horizon, and for days and weeks before that, an unending stretch of training. It was as grueling as it was fun. And it beat the hell out of sitting in the palace listening to Mitsuba lecture.

 

Then Zul-sensei’s tail swung around, wrapping around her chest and squeezing like one of the Great Forest’s boa constrictors. She snarled. She always forgot about his tail, so much thicker and stronger than her own. One three-toed foot rested on her chest, the other on her out-flung arm. Breath whooshed from her lungs and she scowled up at her mentor, who was smirking at her with that oh-I’m-so-much-smarter-than-you-stupid-monkeys look.

 

“You’re dead. Again. How tiresome,” he said dryly, not moving, not easing pressure. While the words were crass, Rudaiya saw the gimlet glimmer of approval in his red eyes. She had improved over their weeks in the wastes. Rudaiya grinned, both at the hidden compliment and the purple blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Usually, _she_ was the one bleeding.

 

“You cheated. You said bare knuckles. If you can use your tail, then I can--” her protest was cut off by the slightest increase in pressure on her diaphragm. She coughed, batting weakly at his feet with her free hand. The whistling wind cooled the sweat of exertion dewed on her skin and the dampness of snow was beginning to seep through her battlesuit.

 

“I lied.” he said simply, “Don’t trust an enemy to keep his word. Do what you have to in order to win. The winner gets to keep breathing. Now come on. Get up. It will take more than a peevish slap to stop me.”

 

Rudaiya opened her mouth to emit a scathing reply when the fierce light of dearly loved kis pricked her senses.

 

“What is it?” Zul-sensei snapped, his face frozen in that mask of disdain and cool regard. Rudaiya tried hard to stifle a smug smile, only barely succeeding. It irked her mentor to no end that Rudaiya could sense ki energy while he could not. The scouter he habitually wore to compensate was at their camp. The pressure disappeared from her chest and Rudaiya bounded up, hopping from one foot to the other in a jerky dance of excitement. Joy’s flame burned brighter than the love of battle, and Rudaiya’s heart soared.

 

“They’re here!” she squealed, cart-wheeling and flipping exuberantly, “They’re home at last! I need to tell my brother, and Turles! And Geta and Goten!”

 

“I’m sure that if you can sense it from this far north, they have sensed it at the Capital,” Zul-sensei pointed out. But Rudaiya was no longer listening.

 

“Come on, we need to get back!” she cried, glaring up at the towering column of ice that was her mentor.

 

“We have work to do here,” Zul-sensei said firmly. Rudaiya pouted, and struggled to keep the wheedling tone from her voice.

 

“Come on, Sensei. The ice isn’t going anywhere. I haven’t seen them since Moontime!”

 

“Hn, a blacker day there never was. Monkeys growling and grunting at each other with that infernal moon turning them into stinking masses of fur. I was sorely tempted to blow it out of the sky. Four years must be a great span of time by your reckoning, impatient little monkey. What is your age again?”

 

“I’m twelve standard years, Zul-sensei. You knew that, Gran threw me and Gohan our birthday party three months ago.” Rudaiya said. Zul-sensei made a dismissive flick with his fingers, brushing away nonexistent dust.

 

“A fingersnap for an Ice Clan,” he said disdainfully, ignoring the latter half of Rudaiya’s comment. Knowing she’d won, Rudaiya laughed, clutching his hand. His fingers, so cold they burned, curled infinitesimally around hers. Half a second later, he was in the air.

 

“Well?” he said with an elegant lift of shoulder, “come along.”

 

 

 

 

The chill of the northern wastes still clung to her as she alighted in Gran’s garden. She paused, savoring the cloying scent and the sun’s drugging warmth. Zul-sensei landed a few feet away, grumbling under his breath about the thrice-damned heat.

 

“You could have stayed in the wastes, Sensei. They might not be home for very long,” Rudaiya said, pushing away a stealthy stab of resentment. In four years traveling the Empire, her parents were only ever home for a week or two before leaving again. She knew it was right, knew it was necessary to keep the peace, but still . . .

 

“Even Ice Clan have manners, little monkey,” he answered dryly. He tilted his head in askance, red eyes narrowly assessing.

 

While his face was an immutable plane of marble, Rudaiya could sense a softening in his ki, a glimmer of kindness. It was a peculiar talent of hers—hers and Gohan’s—to glean tiny trickles of emotion, that was neither ki or psychically based. Unlike Bra who, even at nine, possessed psychic powers that were off the charts. Unlike Geta or Goten, whose ki soared so high but could barely touch minds. Zul-sensei’s voice broke into her thoughts, crisp and cool and familiar.

 

“Besides, I’m sure they both would be eager to hear how you’ve progressed.”

 

Rudaiya nodded, nervously aware of her tattered battlesuit and snarled hair. She tensed at the tap of footsteps, but relaxed when her brother’s lavender head poked around the corner.

 

“Daiya!” Gohan cried. His face broke out in a blinding smile and he blurred to her side, sweeping her up in a fierce embrace. Rudaiya choked out a breathless laugh and returned the hug with equal alacrity. She had missed him in the stretch of isolated training with only Zul-sensei for company, without any physical contact beside the basics of survival or the blows of training.

 

While she was still an inch taller, she had the bewildering impression of being enveloped in the taut, whipcord strength of her twin. His colors and scent overwhelmed her: pale, lavender hair mingling against her sable, the olive-toned warmth of his cheek pressed to hers, pungent male scent filling her nostrils after the sexless chill of north. He had been training too: his skin was damp with exertion and his body still hummed with the memory of ki.

 

“I’ve missed you, Gohan,” she murmured, squeezing him one last time before stepping back. His smile was a quick flash of white teeth, easy and infectious. Rudaiya found herself grinning back. Her sweet, affectionate brother, he cared little for formality or Saiyan stoicism. His emotions played in his features and gestures, sincere and solemn. It was a good thing that Rudaiya was the elder and heir to the black throne after her father.

 

“I missed you too, Daiya,” he said, ruffling her hair. He folded his hand in hers. Excitement burned in their twin sets of blue eyes at the vivid, unmistakable light of ki burning just outside Planet Vegeta’s airspace.

 

“They’re home! Come on!” Gohan exclaimed, pulling her along as he chattered. 

 

Realizing who was standing there, Gohan froze mid-step, his eyes traveling up and up to Zul-sensei’s lofty height. Clean-limbed and slender, with thick lavender hair belaying the implied power of his tail, her twin suddenly looked very fragile next to Zul-sensei. Rudaiya felt a fierce rush of protectiveness for her brother. He lacked the bloodthirstiness inherent in Saiyan blood, when they were children he had cried when he killed a friendly cat by hugging it too hard. In their Elite _sel’tek_ he had been the butt of many jokes, for his coloring and apparent cowardice. Only Rudaiya knew that he intentionally held back, pulling punches to keep from harming someone. His power, she knew, was greater than hers, greater than anyone cared to measure, but he wouldn’t unleash it. Rudaiya prayed to the gods that he would never have to.

 

Gohan cupped his fists before him and bowed slightly. As her brother dragged her off, Rudaiya caught the barest upward curl on the Ice Clan’s mouth. His staid respectfulness disappeared as soon as they were out of earshot in a tidal wave of exuberant questions bursting rapid fire bursts from his lips.

 

“What’s it like in the north?”

 

“Is Zul-sama always so grim?”

 

“Have you learned any Ice Clan techniques? Grandfather taught me Galick Gun the other day.”

 

“Did you see any animals? Gran was telling me about an Earthling myth about a creature that lives in cold places, preying on people. It was called a yeti or,” Gohan sniggered, “The Abominable Snow Man!”  Rudaiya rolled her eyes. Gran had the funniest stories.

 

“Then Grandfather said the only hairy, stupid monster he knew living up north was Raditz!” together they burst into delighted giggles and trotted together through the archway and down the hall to where their ship would dock. 

 

As they arrived, with Zul-sensei trailing behind them like an intimidating shadow, Rudaiya was surprised to see who was gathered there, the assorted gaggle of friends and family. Papa’s squad stood off to one side: Kurn, Okurah, Maro and Raditz. Beside the commander stood a smaller, younger copy: his son Turles. Her heart skipped a beat. He stood so tall and proud next to his father, his bristling lion’s mane of hair gleaming blue-black in the light. His gaze flicked to her and a slight smile turned the corners of his thin mouth. Warmth coursed through her and she smiled back. Her eyes were drawn to Gran, who knelt beside Geta, swabbing a burn on his thin chest none too gently, berating him the entire time.

 

“Damned Saiyans, you’re never satisfied unless you’re destroying something or hurting each other!” she hissed in a low voice, irritably flicking her long blue hair over her shoulder.

 

“But Mom, we didn’t mean to--” Geta’s protest was cut off by Gran’s swift pouring of antiseptic on the burn. He let out a string of foul words in Saiyago and Gran slapped the wet cloth against his wound, educing a yelp.

 

“Watch your language, young man!” she snapped. A few feet away, Goten was receiving similar treatment by his mother, except Chi-Chi’s reprimands were less colorfully worded, though the gist of it was the same: a rather derogatory commentary on the Saiyan race as a whole.

 

Grandfather and Kakkarot stood next to each other, looking on with amusement. Rudaiya’s heart soared at the sight of her grandfather, his upward spike of black hair teased by the wind and sweat glistening on his bare chest, a white drying cloth around his neck. Kakkarot was similarly attired in loose black training pants, and Rudaiya surmised that the two of them must have been sparring. She set aside such thoughts and leapt for him. Gohan was of the same mind, and together they latched onto the muscular trunk of his torso, squeezing with all their might. A hard, heavy hand rested affectionately on her head and all the tension seeped out of her.

 

“Brats,” he rasped, and Rudaiya looked adoringly up at him, the angles of his face highlighted and shadowed in the high gold light of the sun. His mouth curved in a familiar, well-loved smirk.

 

“Rudaiya, still alive I see. The Ice Clan teaches you well?” his voice was warm and deep, the same rusty resonance that instantly made her feel safe. The tanned skin around his eyes and mouth softened, with pride, she sensed, as well as the four letter word that he never said. One solid black brow winged upward in question and Rudaiya nodded vigorously, glancing shyly to where Zul-sensei lurked in shadow.

 

“He is a very good teacher, Grandfather. I’ve learned a lot since Moontime,” she said, eager to defend her mentor. She knew that Zul-sensei’s offer to teach her contested hot debate among the adults and Grandfather was its axis. But Rudaiya had always trusted Zul-sensei, as her mother trusted him. In the end, she had gone with the Ice Clan into Planet Vegeta’s wilds. Bored with the conversation, Gohan darted across the dock to pester Geta, now freed from his mother’s machinations.

 

“You feel stronger, Rudaiya. You could give my boys a run for their money!” Kakkarot put in, grinning down at her. She noticed Grandfather’s hot glance at the younger Saiyan, and sensed some inner turmoil. Rudaiya smiled up at Kakkarot. She liked the man, he was strong and sweet, and was a good mentor to Goten and Geta. What was it that Grandfather didn’t like?

 

“Maybe I will,” Rudaiya dared, sizing the two boys up. Geta and Goten were playing some sort of game with a floating bot, and graciously allowed Gohan to play too. A quick scan of their kis told her that the two older boys were stronger than her, but only by a thin margin.

 

“What did Geta and Goten do to make Gran so mad?” Rudaiya asked. Grandfather’s smirk widened as he looked upon his lastborn son.

 

“Your uncle and Kakkarot’s brat were sparring and one of their blasts went awry. Sheared off part of the Med Center’s roof and scared your grandmother shitless. She wasn’t happy,” Grandfather grunted, watching his mate with wry amusement.

 

Rudaiya scratched the back of her head, directing her attention elsewhere. A strange prickling sensation plucked her senses and she looked up to see Turles watching her closely. His chin lifted a few inches in greeting. Her heart hitched, then began a new rhythm, all under his steady black gaze. Grinning like a fool and blushing hotly, she looked away.          

 

The winking light of ki high above steadily grew stronger until Rudaiya could pinpoint the speck of their ship hurtling toward home. Dull whispers of conversation and even the ruckus of the boys’ play quieted until all of them watched the white ship dive, haoled in the heat of reentry, before swirling gracefully above the palace and settling gently in the docking bay. Rudaiya forgot Turles in the feverish rush of excitement, a flood of longing overtaking her. Gohan’s hand slipped into hers and squeezed.

 

_Rudaiya!_

Her mother’s voice rang through her mind, exultant with joy. A small sound slipped from her lips as she was wrapped in exquisite love, her mind perceived forest’s quiet secrets and whispers of song that made up both her parents.

 

_Mama! Oh Mama, I’ve missed you so much!_

 

The ship’s ramp descended and the door slid open to reveal two figures in silhouette. Rudaiya stopped herself from running up the ramp. She darted a quick glance at Gohan and found his eyes moist and focused up with feverish longing. Papa emerged first and Rudaiya’s heart thrummed fast. He was so handsome and strong, her papa. Long lavender hair, like Gohan’s, was tied away from an exotic face, olive skin stretched over boldly sculptured bones. Blue eyes shone from under pale, slanted brows. The only thing marring his visage was a long scar, a raised furrow of white tissue darting down one cheek, a parting gift from King Cold. Her gaze swept quickly over the armor, battlesuit, sword and medallion that she always associated with him before returning to his eyes. They sang with joy, burning bright like the clean light of her ki.

 

_Little Daiya, my firstborn, I’ve missed you._

_Papa. I’m so glad you’re home!_

The second figure was no less striking, in Rudaiya’s entirely biased opinion. Her hair fell in defiant Saiyan spikes over her brow and down her shoulders, jet black, framing a face of sharp angles and savage beauty. A red rose in full bloom blushed behind her ear. Her eyes flashed, polished black, and her soft lips smiled unabashedly. She was dressed as a princess of Planet Vegeta, in a siren red gown that rippled and clung in all the right places. Gender mores were different throughout the Empire, Rudaiya knew, and a princess in battle armor would be considered strange by some, threatening by most. But clad in armor or dress, no one could ever mistake Sansai as anything less than a warrior of the highest caliber. Rudaiya thought there was no one as beautiful as her Mama, even Gran.

 

The two descended the ramp to be met with a hail of greetings. As soon as their feet touched down on Planet Vegeta’s soil, Gohan and Rudaiya lunged at them, falling into waiting arms. Papa was closer, so Rudaiya fell into his strong embrace, breathing in his musky scent, so similar to Grandfather’s. The cool, polished stone of his medallion dug into her cheek, but she didn’t care. His heart beat sure and strong under his armor and his tail wrapped around her waist, steadying her. His lips brushed her hair in a fleeting caress and Rudaiya pulled back slightly. His face blurred before her and she blinked, angry that anything dare distort her father’s face. Too overcome to speak without weeping, she touched his mind, trying hard to keep the hope and fear from marring their connection.

 

_Are you . . . how long are you home for, Papa?_

 

The naked compassion in his gaze told her he wasn’t fooled.

 

“We’re home for good, Daiya. If we ever leave again, you’re coming with us,” he said softly, in a voice like the cool whisper of wind through summer’s leaves. Now her tears could not be dammed and two slid down her cheeks, round and full. She and Gohan switched after a few minutes and Rudaiya selfishly clung to her mother, knowing that there were important things for her and Papa to tell Grandfather and Gran, knowing that Turles and Geta and Goten were watching.

 

Her mother smelled clean and sweet, of soap and flowers, and her natural musky scent, like sage. Rudaiya buried her face in the side of her neck, amid the tickling strands of hair. Her warm, callused hand rubbed and patted her back, and Rudaiya swallowed hard to keep from falling all to pieces. Her mental control had been torn away by the rush of emotion and Mama saw her childish resentment. Rudaiya was nearly crushed by the pain it caused her.

 

_I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t mean—_

 

 _No,_ kou’ish tor’ktsu _. I am the one who is sorry. I—we should have paid more attention to what this did to you, to both of you. It was cruel and selfish of us to abandon you like this. We are here now. And we will never leave again._

Rudaiya flushed at the childish endearment of ‘my sweet,’ then smiled. She could think of nothing in the Universe that would make her happier.

<^>

Gohan’s head was a dead weight in her lap, his hair spilled like a skein of raw silk across her thighs. She combed his lavender locks absently, admiring the clean lines of his sleekly muscled form as he slept curled on silk cushions. Gods, he’d grown at least six inches since she’d last seen him and still Rudaiya was taller; both were still growing like weeds. Now Rudaiya lay curled on the floor, her head against Trunks’ knee.

 

Sansai met her mate’s eye and saw her contentment reflected there. No more whiny aristocrats with their fumbling sycophantic antics, no more shrewd business gurus with their carefully couched innuendos and subtle threats. No more twittering women to entertain in gala after gala. It was liberating to return to her battlesuit and armor, to speak her thoughts to the ones she loved most.

 

Bulma made a round, refilling wine glasses. Sansai touched her hand affectionately as she accepted the proffered glass. King Vegeta’s face flashed scowling disapproval at the sight of his woman pouring wine like a servant.

 

“This quiet disturbs me,” the king said once Trunks finished his report. Warm, low light cast the scar on her mate’s face in sharp relief, his eyes glowing. He took a sip of wine and one red drop pearled on his lower lip. Sansai repressed the impulse to lick it off.

 

“It does me too, Father, but in four years, over the expanse of our Empire, after visiting thousands of planets, Sansai and I found no evidence of any army being built or heard any whispers of one from the Outer Rim.”

 

“We were discreet, and thorough. We found no one, from Trade House to pirating vessel, king to peasant, who had the technical knowledge or the proper funding to build such an army,” Sansai added.

 

In the secret chambers of her heart, she hoped that Bardock’s vision had been mistaken, that the _Sorva_ had died with King Cold. Thirteen years of peace, of growth and prosperity . . . she shuddered at the prospect of it all vanishing. Her hand unconsciously tightened around a hank of her son’s hair. He grunted in his sleep and Sansai forced her hand to relax. It didn’t have to end that way. But in long months of fruitless searching, under the guise of touring the Empire as Prince and Princess, leaving their children to think themselves abandoned by their parents, to have another train her daughter when it was her right as a warrior . . . it grated.

 

“Another dead end,” muttered King Vegeta, “shit.”

 

Frowning in his calm, thoughtful manner, Trunks turned to Kakkarot, who was elbow deep in the sweetmeats on the table.

 

“Has Bardock Seen anything?” he asked tentatively. Kakkarot’s open face darkened, the gravity of the expression somewhat dampened by his cheeks puffed out with food. He swallowed slowly and turned toward Trunks.

 

The Seer’s visions had gotten progressively more frequent, invading dreams, invading waking thought, unbidden, excruciatingly vivid. Sansai shuddered. He was not mad, but perhaps it would have been better if he was. Undulating layers of past and future flashed before him, carnage and war and hate. Any sleep he did get was heavily sedated. No Saiyan warrior, Sansai thought with sympathy, deserved to live cloistered in a dark room, paralyzed by what he Saw behind his eyes. 

 

“He Sees everything. Just this morning, he screamed like a banshee as a servant gave him his breakfast. He told me later that the ancestors of the servant cut down a king on their home planet, serving the head to the queen on a silver platter.” Sansai grimaced at the image he painted. She couldn’t even fathom what Bardock must be going through.

 

“It’s getting worse,” Kakkarot continued, “He can’t discern any chronological sequence, but he knows that our fate yet remains. He . . . he wept for me. He Saw me die by the _Sorva_. And you,” Kakkarot said, watching Trunks steadily. Sansai’s heart contracted in stark terror. Gods, what would become of their children if the _Sorva_ killed them? And beyond her own selfish desires for the safety of her family, what would become of the Universe as a whole? Surely the Kais would not keep them alive only their destruction!

 

Sansai reached over and squeezed Kakkarot’s hand in a rare gesture of compassion. His black eyes looked up at her with an unbearable tenderness and unflinching gratitude. There was no trace of passion in his gaze and Sansai felt a rush of relief. That conflict, at least, was resolved with no lasting scars. Sansai had chosen a lifemate in Trunks the first time she had seen his picture and Kakkarot had always been Chi-Chi’s, whether he knew it or not. He seemed to see the evidence of her thoughts on her face, for he grinned suddenly, his goofy, carefree grin.

 

“I did not mean to probe fresh wounds, Kakkarot,” Trunks said quietly, by way of apology. Kakkarot’s grin froze, turning wan and sardonic, his gaze finding Trunks’.

 

“I know that, my friend. It’s just . . . I am not used to feeling helpless. I cannot help my father. I cannot stop whatever god-awful fate he sees.” He laughed mirthlessly, his eyes meeting King Vegeta’s in grave understanding.

 

“I don’t even know how to fight what is coming! How will we know if we are strong enough?”

 

The question was rhetorical, but every pair of eyes swerved to King Vegeta as if expecting an answer. He was their king, godlike in power. His word was their command. Sansai saw the burden of it settle on his shoulders and his face harden to meet it. His jaw clenched and relaxed, the tip of his tail twitching.

 

“I—I don’t know. Damn it, I don’t know!” he roared. They all saw what it cost him to say the words, and he rose like a great and terrible bird of prey, his cape flaring behind him like blood red wings. Without another word, he stormed out of the room. The children were unperturbed by the noise and slumbered on, ignorant of the complexities of adult machinations. Sansai glanced at Bulma, discomfited.                  

 

Bulma sat with her bare, lean legs tucked up under her, the rich, blue fabric of her skirt spread over her knees. Abstractly, Sansai realized that she preferred her hair long, that lustrous blue wave of silk that spilled down her shoulders and back. A slanting fringe of bang framed her face, unchanged even in thirteen years. The purse of her lips and drumming of fingertips was an attitude of deep thought, or troubled emotions, her blue eyes watching where her mate had disappeared.

 

Sansai frowned, willing Bulma to look at her. She had yet to participate in their discussion and Sansai sorely wanted her view. Trunks’ words to Kakkarot fell on deaf ears as Sansai pressed her consciousness toward Bulma, feeling her spirit that riotous, laughing blue twined with King Vegeta’s fierce gold.

 

_Why are you troubled, my lady? We have time yet, right? We’ll find something, won’t we?_

Bulma lifted her gaze to meet hers and Sansai swallowed hard at the rawness of emotion writhing there, fear, uncertainty, hope.

 

 _Yes,_ she whispered, _we have precious little time left. I can feel it coming. Can’t you?_

 

A small tic of muscle spasmed under Sansai’s right eye. Yes, she could feel it. She could feel the cold prickle of dread along her skin. They haunted her: the gleaming spiders, their dull, glassy eyes pebbling the shining surface, thick, stabbing forelegs breaking off like a snapping icicle in her flesh, flexible mandibles against her throat, sucking out heat and life . . . nightmares sometimes woke her in the night and she would turn to Trunks to comfort her and he would the only way he knew how. The feeling loomed like a brooding cloud, the air charged with the acrid scent of impending lightning. Sansai spread her hand over Gohan’s head. Gods, even with her power, could she protect her children? Or would she die in battle alongside her mate as Bardock had Seen?

 

_I can, Bulma. What else can we do but try?_

<^>

The G.R. was his sanctuary, a private sanctum where he lost himself in the punishing rhythms of training. Here, he could forget all the troubles that lay outside his door.

Or he could try.

Trunks and Sansai’s news was expected, but disconcerting. The _Sorva_ , as they were now called, haunted his dreams, along with his own inadequacies. A deep-seated need to be stronger, to be in control drove him to this room, training every spare hour these past thirteen years.

He needed to ascend! 

 

His hand fisted on the smooth, silver panel grafted in the wall, and he willed calm. He turned his thoughts to his beloved G.R. His woman had engineered the room to cope with the titanic upheaval of his training sessions, refining it every time he blew it up into sturdier and sleeker models until this one. This model, G.R. 17, as she put it, could ‘withstand about a million nukes with a smile on its face.’

 

As the machine whirred to life, Vegeta paused for a brief period of meditation then slipped into a light warm up at four hundred times gravity. The preliminary rituals complete, Vegeta widened his stance and reached deep for his power. Golden heat flooded every cell, and he let it bloom slowly, ascending first to Super Saiyan, breathing deep and stretching in the familiar nimbus of shining light. Then, with a flick of consciousness, he ascended to the second level, electricity crackling around him, his senses sharpened and muscles knotted.

 

He paused, breathing deeply and focusing. His first two transformations came through emotional turmoil and grief. This next one would be much harder, but he didn’t want to wait around for one of his loved ones—yes, he had those and was slowly beginning to cope with the idea—to die in order to achieve it. So instead, he dredged up every ignominy of both his lives and recounted them, channeling each thought into anger, then power.

 

A scream tore from his throat, shrill and keening. Pain sparked behind his eyes as his aura bucked and whirled around him, seething hurricane of gold. He strove, digging deeper, _deeper_ into the well of power he knew existed inside him, the wild throb of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Strain stretched his muscles taut, until they cramped and writhed in wracking spasms. The scream deepened with pain, a low, hoarse gargle.

 

 _More,_ he swore to himself, _deeper. Try harder, damn it!_    

 

Vegeta threw back his head in a wild roar, pushing himself to his limits and beyond, flinging himself into an abyss and praying to the gods that he was strong enough to fly from it. The wall, the floodgate barring him from the power that slept inside him cracked. His ki burst out, pushing against the walls of the G.R., making them groan in protest. His hair began to lengthen, gold spikes shooting out from his skull like spears. Pain nearly buckled his knees. He ignored his body’s screeching protests, ignoring the scorching heat burning away the sweat dewed on his skin into steam and salt.

So close . . .

In a strange, dream-like trance, he saw his mate. He saw her heartbreakingly beautiful face, with tears streaming down pale cheeks. He held out his hand to her.

 

 _Woman._ He called.

 

She turned away.

 

_Bulma!_

 

No answer.

 

_BULMA!!_

Then his body crumpled beneath him, black rushing up to greet him. His last thought before passing out was that he had nearly done it.

He had been an inch from ascending to a plane of power beyond imagining.

 

 

 

“Of all the incredibly stupid, monstrously ill-conceived ideas that ever made their way into that thick, fucked up skull of yours Vegeta, this one takes the cake with a handful of goddamned cherries on top! You burned up all the oxygen _and_ you blew up my G.R.! I never thought it was possible to see someone asphyxiating and bleeding to death at the same fucking time!” she snarled, spitting and hissing like a cat.

 

Vegeta accepted the drying cloth she offered tersely and swiped the regen tank’s fluid from his face. Normally, he would have replied with something similarly derogatory and sarcastic, but his legs were still shaky and he saw fear pulsing like a heartbeat underneath the anger in his woman’s face.

Besides, damn her, she was right.

 

So instead of explaining, instead of arguing, he did the only thing he knew that would shut her up, that would give vent to all she was feeling as surely as words. He kissed her, forcing his tongue into her mouth, silencing any protest with heat and pressure, white hot desire smoldering through the bond. He felt her stiffen, slap at him, then, almost unwillingly, melt into his embrace. Then cling. Then arch up in furious, restive invitation.

 

_You nearly died, you fucking bastard! You nearly died!_

 

She berated him, her tongue tangling with his. Her fingernails dug into the nape of his neck and he held her skull between his hands, holding her still. In blurry half-memories, he felt blood leave him, tasted it bubbling between his lips and saw her face haloed in gold. His blue angel.

 

_How did you get to me so fast? The G.R. exploded. I should have bled out._

 

She made a soft sound, one hand pressed over his heart as if to reassure herself it was still beating.

 

_You called to me, idiot. You screamed my name in my head, made me destroy a perfectly innocent motherboard._

 

He uttered a growl that could have once been a laugh.

 

_Gods, Vegeta! What did you think you were doing? Had you outside, you would have destroyed the planet! You scared us all half to death, especially Bra. She felt you . . . fall._

 

Vegeta broke the kiss, and his heart contracted at the sight of her, blue hair in beautiful disarray, eyes shining with tears. Fine tremors ran through her, and her heart hammered. He thought of his daughter, the mirror image of his lovely mate, afraid when her power felt him sink toward oblivion. And his sons, so fiercely proud of his strength, panicking as his ki dipped low.

 

He combed tendrils of her hair away from the pale circle of her face, gorgeous and as familiar to him as his own in a rare, public gesture of tenderness. True, they were alone in the humming stillness of the Med Center, but some inner, instinctive mechanism tripped up outside the privacy of their suites.

 

“I have to get stronger, woman. I have to. When this thing hits, I have to be ready,” he whispered.

 

_To protect you. To protect our brats and their children and the life we’ve built together. I can’t be alone again. It would destroy me._

 

Her lips quivered and one tear streaked down her cheek.

 

“Kami, Vegeta! I love you!” she cried, her lips crushing his. Her body softened, growing warm and supple against him as their kisses heated. The only language they needed now was one of touch.

 

He moved without thought, sweeping her up, pinning her against the wall. His blood pounded in his ears, his body quickened in fierce and feverish arousal. His hands shook. Soft, urgent cries murmured against his lips lit a fever in him. The need to brand her flesh with his, to mark her as his own and remind her of his possession of her, was undeniable.

 

Her tongue stroked his and Vegeta was once more wrapped in Bulma: the nubile eagerness of her, the halcyon colors of her skin and hair, the moist caress of her breath and heat. Her hands traced tortuous paths over his chest and back, and gods, her mouth! Warm, swollen lips kissed and nipped at his chin, his throat, his ears in tickling grazes, inflaming him. Vegeta snarled, her clothing rent into pieces in his urgency. The small part of his mind that remained sane was abashed by this mindless frenzy. A man of fifty-five years should have control not this savage, slavish desire of a moonstruck fool!

 

But his body didn’t care for such philosophical musings, and throbbed with its own insane urgency, driven mad by the warm, intimate touch of bare skin. Pressing her firm against the wall, he thrust within her, hard and smooth, burying himself to the hilt in her warmth. Breath sobbed past his lips in the sweet relief of it. Now they spoke in only the most primitive of languages, with grunts and cries, half-coherent words tearing from fevered minds and swollen lips. She came at the first stroke, screaming, and he silenced her with his mouth, pounding into her roughly.

 

He was reminded of their first coupling, as secretive and fevered as two teenagers in her lab all those years ago. The same woman could make his blood boil and have him fairly loose his mind in his need for her. Her inner muscles milked him and he growled, seizing her hips, positioning them for deeper penetration. Her lean legs wound around him, absorbing his driving force. When her body embraced him again in ecstasy, he let his need take him with her and together, they soared, every secret door inside him flung open accept her.

 

Vegeta cradled her there, against his heart, until their breathing slowed and the last vestiges of climax faded. He removed himself from her and set her on her feet amid the ruins of her clothes, smirking almost sheepishly.

 

“Not bad for a middle aged couple,” she rasped, still gloriously winded from exertion.

 

“Middle aged?” he repeated with a cocked brow, “speak for yourself, woman. I won’t reach middle age for another century or so.”  


	2. Fool Me Once...

Gooseflesh stippled her skin and she snapped awake, muscles taut with a warrior’s readiness. She was in her room at the palace.  Vaguely she smelled Mama and Papa. They had carried her to bed after another long, boring discussion with Grandfather and Gran. Since arriving home yesterday, she and Gohan spent every second they could with their parents. Her brother lay sprawled beside her, wild in dreams, one leg twitching and the thin veil of lavender hair covering his face undulating with his snoring breaths.

 

Rudaiya rolled her eyes, untwining her tail from his. Lower lip thrust out in a scowl of concentration, she threw her senses out into the night as Zul-sensei had taught her, seeking what had wakened her. It was a quiet night, metaphorically speaking, the wind whistled unceasingly outside; she sensed Zul-sensei nearby, strong, silent and cold, menacing and protective. But no, it was not Zul-sensei’s familiar looming presence that had dragged her from a sound sleep. Grandfather and Gran were deeply asleep; as were Mama and Papa . . . she probed until she found a small, bright kernel of ki and the impression of blue.

 

Rudaiya frowned, glancing out of the skylight. The position of Planet Vegeta’s green-hued moon told her that it was past the third watch of the night, long past bedtime. She rose and slid like a shadow through the palace’s halls, hiking the sleeve of her long, loose shirt up her shoulder. Measuring her breathing and step, she stalked her young aunt as she would a cho-deer for her dinner in the wilds. The thought brought a foolish grin to her face and she smothered a chuckle of delight.

 

It was like Bra to go wandering off at night, Rudaiya grumbled to herself as she padded soft-footed after her. Catty and curious, precocious and spoiled, more interested in Gran’s gadgets than fighting, Bra was about as different from Rudaiya as two people could get.

And Rudaiya loved her like a sister.

Go figure. 

 

She tracked the familiar beacon of her ki, however dismally low it may be, until she could make out the soft swish of her nightdress and the brush and slap of bare feet as well as . . . boots? Rudaiya opened the aperture of her focus and was overwhelmed with a superior ki, thick and bright and masculine. _What the—?_ Rudaiya thought. She paused at an obscure junction in one of the many rambling corridors of the centuries-old palace, peering around to see Bra walking hand in hand someone, a man, her lithe tail swaying back and forth in an almost provocative rhythm. Rudaiya raked her tousled black hair from her forehead, stealthily probing the ki of this man.

 

He paused mid-sentence, sniffing the air like a lone wolf. Rudaiya ducked back, smothering her ki in case he had a scouter. She caught the sight of him in profile and rooted through her memory and could find no face to match it. She listened hard as the tap of his boot heels grew fainter, and swifter. He suspected he was being followed. Rudaiya counted to ten, then fifteen before continuing her pursuit, slinking low and stealthy.

 

One thing she knew: No man would dare harm King Vegeta’s only daughter. But Rudaiya would bet the battlesuit off her back that Grandfather didn’t know about this midnight outing.

 

Bra knew him, whoever he was. And liked him. The deliberate, exaggerated sway of her hips and the soft look she threw him from beneath perfect blue lashes was enough to display that. Rudaiya had the sudden, vivid vision of Turles’ slight smile, the promising breadth of his chest and arms, suggesting he would achieve his father’s height and brawn. Only three years until . . .

 _That’s different!_ Rudaiya told herself hotly, _Bra is only nine!_

 

By Saiyan law, no courtship spar could begin until both parties were recognized as adults at fifteen. The man looked significantly older. And, judging by his possessive hand on her arm, intended on making her his, if not now, then as soon as Bra was of proper age.

 

Rudaiya cursed viciously under her breath, using several Ice Clan words she had heard from Zul-sensei. The flow of forbidden words was cathartic and she felt instantly better. As far as she could tell, Bra was in no immediate danger. She couldn’t tattle on her aunt and earn her hate if it was indeed harmless.

But if it wasn’t . . .

If it wasn’t, anything that happened to her young aunt would be her fault.

 

Chilled by the thought, Rudaiya resumed her vigil, peering around the corner again, carefully shielding both ki and mind. She knew better than to underestimate Bra’s powers of observation. Rudaiya realized that they were near the Elite soldier’s barracks, conveniently, Rudaiya noted blackly, in a blind spot of security cameras. Rudaiya logged away fragmented details: Elite, most likely, maybe near her parent’s age, about Grandfather’s height . . .

 

The two were facing each other, talking in voices too low for even her ears to catch. That man looked familiar . . . Rudaiya squeezed her eyes tightly shut, groping vainly through her memory for his face. Thin nose, almost beaky, set in a face as sharp as a blade, as dark as night, hair spiking rebelliously over his shoulders . . . 

 

The man leaned in and kissed Bra on the cheek, making her blush and titter. There was nothing lascivious in the gesture; otherwise she wouldn’t have waited to see Bra’s reaction. Rudaiya tensed, ready to throw a blast into his face if he tried anything more. He didn’t try for more, sensing Bra’s shyness, and stepped back.

 

“You’d better not do anything stupid, buddy, or you’re in for a world of hurt.” Rudaiya threatened the man, melting into the shadows as the two parted ways. It was a dance as practiced as Rudaiya and Zul-sensei sparring. _How long has she been doing this?_ Rudaiya wondered.

 

_How long?_

 

 

 

 

She was just passing down the winding hall to her room when a hand on her shoulder nearly made her jump out of her skin. Dawn was just beginning to kiss the horizon and weariness dulled her senses. She whirled around to find Geta standing behind her, a puzzled grin tugging at his mouth.

 

Geta always looked amused: whether it be scorn, bemusement or actual mirth, his favored expression was a smirk. In looks and personality, he had the lion’s share of his father with a dash of his mother’s sassiness and intelligence. But, unlike his father, he had kept his baby bangs and she thought it added a boyish charm to his appearance, lessening the air of arrogance he wore like a cape and softening the severe lines of his face.

 

“Daiya! Are you here for an early session too?” he asked, one raised brow disappearing briefly under the fringe of his bangs. Sleepily, she noticed that he was dressed in loose gi pants with a drying cloth over one shoulder. She slid a critical eye over her uncle’s muscled chest, appraising and measuring him. Thicker than Gohan, but more compact than Turles, there was a sleek, supple dangerousness in way he was knit together, his skin the same bronzed tone as her own. Solid, strong, with a gleam of deadly intelligence, Geta had the air of a formidable opponent.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Rudaiya replied, scratching the back of her head, “Zul-sensei gave me the day off so I wanted to get in a warm up before it got too crowded.” This was true, except for the fact that Zul-sensei didn’t know he was giving her the day off. Geta’s smirk broadened.

 

“Excellent! We can spar! Goten’s still asleep, the dummy. Only the breakfast bell can rouse him. And I’ve been anxious to see what you’ve learned since Moontime, Niece.”

 

Rudaiya rolled her eyes. Geta loved lording over her his superior strength. And the kinship between them amused to no end, so odd given their relative ages. It was then that she noticed two bottles of Gran’s soda in his hand and her throat tightened at the thought of the sweet, bubbly bite of it sliding down her throat.

 

“Let’s do it. But don’t go crying to Gran when I kick your ass,” Rudaiya challenged cockily.

 

Geta’s blue eyes flashed, a strange echo of one of her father’s expressions.

 

“We’ll see about that, girlie,” he rumbled, unconsciously deepening his voice.

 

Together, they walked out onto the deserted arena just as the sun peeked over the rim of the world. Mount Ur stood stark and black against dusky twilit colors, a proud remnant of their heritage. Setting his sodas and drying cloth to one side, Geta yawned and began a quick series of stretches.

 

Rudaiya faced the sun and took in a deep breath, slowly raising her arms up, lengthening her torso and arms. Exhaling, she folded forward, resting her palms on the ground before her, enjoying the burn deep in her muscles. She kicked out her legs, landing in a high plank, then slowly arched back. Blood rushed and tingled through her veins, chasing away weariness and gathering in a gentle, pulsing pressure in her head. Her long black hair fell over her face, brushing the tile between her hands, still cool and damp from the night’s dew. She looked over to find Geta watching her in narrow, skeptical confusion, his head cocked at a strange angle.

 

“What are you staring at?” Rudaiya snapped.

 

“What are you _doing_ , Daiya?” he asked, a wealth of implied disapproval in his words. She performed her sequence in reverse, straightening.

 

“It’s something Zul-sensei taught me. The Ice Clan called it _Allun’garae Taanju Ut_. The Burning Dance. I had to improvise a few of the _asanas_ because I can’t balance on my tail like he does--”

 

“Wait, what? _Asanas_? Is it some sort of warm up?” Geta asked, the skepticism fading in a rush of excited enthusiasm. Rudaiya smirked, smugly aware that this was the first time she had been more knowledgeable than Geta about something. 

 

“An _asana_ , a pose,” she explained, stretching up, then folding forward. Eager to explain, eager to share, she said, “Like this is called ‘Holy Bow.’ Some of the names are a bit strange because the dance was originally a form of worship for the Ice Clan ruler, the Winter-king. But monks discovered that it made them more limber and flexible and the dance was given to warriors.”

 

Geta, who had been mimicking her, and struggling to touch the ground, leapt up like a reed snapping in the wind.

 

“Ugh! I don’t want to do any dance worshipping Ice Clan!” he said, disgusted. Rudaiya frowned.

 

“It’s not--”

 

“You’ve spent too much time on the ice with that _thing_. Father says that the war will never be over until every single one of his race is dead!”

 

Her short temper snapped and she bristled, standing nose to nose with Geta, difficult considering he was a year older and several inches taller than she. The fur on her tail bushed out as she lashed it back and forth, anger slipping hot and heady through her veins.

 

“Don’t you dare say anything about Zul-sensei! I know the stories just as you do; I hate what the Ice Clan did to our people, our family! But Zul-sensei has done nothing wrong. He saved my mama’s life _twice_! He deserves your respect!”

 

Geta folded his arms over his chest and glared down the bridge of his nose at her, blue eyes incongruous in his face of smoldering angles and dark ferocity.

 

“Fine,” he said tersely, “Are we going to spar or what?”

 

Rudaiya exhaled a breath sharply through her nostrils and stomped across the ring to her place. Taking her stance, she beckoned him with a taunting flick of two fingers.

 

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she rasped.                           

 

Geta lunged for her, his face a mask of icy implacability. Rudaiya met his incoming forearm with her own, and the shock radiated painfully up her arm, shivering through her whole body. The tile cracked beneath her bare feet. Geta followed the forearm with a roundhouse kick, catching Rudaiya in the temple. Pain bloomed like a flower in her head, and the world doubled and tripled as tears stung her eyes. After thousands of hours training under Zul-sensei, Rudaiya shook off the pain as she would the night’s blanket of snow and recovered, somersaulting over his head in fluid grace.

 

He was ready for her and the two of them began the familiar, lethal dance of war that sang through every son or daughter of Saiyan blood. It started out as a friendly spar, but, still angry over his slander of her mentor, Rudaiya pushed the pace, driving and biting at him. Geta had enough of his father in him to delight in the challenge, a smirk curled contemptuously on his lips.

 

She wanted to wipe the smirk from his face and unleashed a vicious combination, one of Zul-sensei’s favorites. Flying knee, double-axel punch, scissor kick, and backhand. Geta shook it off with ease, a rocking punch swelling her left eye. Snarling, Rudaiya’s knee snapped up, meeting Geta’s face with a sickening crack. He only grunted as blood gushed from his broken nose and she mustered up grudging respect.

Geta was tough.

Rudaiya ducked his backhand and swept his feet from under him. A second later, he was up, straightening his nose with a soft pop. Rudaiya waited, blood and power humming through her deliciously.

 

“Damn, Daiya. Not bad. Not bad at all. It’s fun fighting someone else. I know all Goten’s moves and he knows mine, so it gets kind of boring sometimes.”

 

“Had enough already?” Rudaiya shot back, foolishly pleased that Geta enjoyed the spar as much as she did.

 

“You’ll tap before I will, Niece. But I’m hungry. How ‘bout we continue after breakfast?”

 

Rudaiya eyed him narrowly, proud of the blood pouring from his nose even as her eye swelled to a slit. She shrugged.

 

“Fine. But I didn’t forfeit. We just paused our bout,” Rudaiya stated.       

 

Geta grunted and sauntered over to one side of the ring and dangled his legs over the edge, looking out over the expanse of Planet Vegeta. The sun had risen fully and hot desert wind began to gust, cooling the sweat on their limbs. Rudaiya joined him and Geta twisted off the cap of his soda.

 

“Want one?” he offered with a raised brow. Rudaiya immediately reassessed her opinion of her uncle as she accepted the proffered olive branch, swinging her legs in idle circles in the empty air. She twisted off the cap and guzzled several delicious gulps, the acid and carbonation burning her throat. They gulped and belched in contented companionship, watching the play of cloud and shadow over the landscape. Relaxed, Rudaiya told him of her training with Zul-sensei and the strange rhythms of the north country. He in turn spoke glowingly of his training with Grandfather and Kakkarot.

 

“Father says I’m close. Both me and Goten. Close to going Super,” Geta said, any trace of arrogance gone from his voice. His blue eyes were serious and excited at the same time. Rudaiya felt the mixed stirrings of pride and jealousy. Pride that another of her blood would achieve the Legendary. Childish jealousy that the power wasn’t hers. He noticed.

 

“You’ll change too, Daiya. I know you will. It’s in your blood.” Rudaiya’s lips curved. It was strange to hear Gran’s perception combined with Grandfather’s arrogance in a few short sentences.

 

There was a lull in their conversation and Rudaiya sipped the cool sweetness of her soda contentedly. Now that they were cooled down, Geta deployed a capsule containing his favorite snacks: an eclectic mix of traditional Saiyan dishes and Chi-Chi’s baked miracles, pilfered from their tiny house in the forest. These he magnanimously shared. Awake for hours already stalking Bra, Rudaiya’s stomach rumbled in hunger and she gratefully accepted the snack.        

 

“I’m glad Trunks-nissan and Sansai are home. Gohan missed them,” Geta said in a cool, off-hand manner, slicing a bagel in half with a bead of ki from his finger and handing her half. Rudaiya accepted the bagel, inhaling the sweet aroma of toasted bread and cinnamon. She grinned, cutting a glance at her uncle in sly regard through the black veil of her lashes.

 

Gohan wasn’t the only one who missed them. If Geta thought that Grandfather hung the moon, then he thought Rudaiya’s papa set the stars alight. Geta worshipped his brother, the warrior who had transformed into a Super Saiyan at only fourteen and traveled through time and space, delivering justice with each sweep of his sword. As the youngest male of a very powerful line, Geta no doubt felt dwarfed by the relative titans of his father and brother.

It was no wonder he was so tough, so cagey.

 

“Yeah, I did too.” Rudaiya agreed softly.

 

“What are you guys doing out here so _early_?”

 

Rudaiya turned to find Goten, his gi pants and shirt sloppily donned, his riotous spikes of hair tousled and standing on end. His round black eyes were slitted, as if he begrudged the sun its light. The sight of him squinting and rubbing his face in an effort to bring himself to full wakefulness was so comical that Rudaiya couldn’t smother a girlish giggle. Goten’s eyes swept over Geta and Rudaiya, then fastened on Geta’s snack stash.

 

“Food!” he cried, falling for it as if he had been starved. Rudaiya ducked out of the way, narrowly missing the flying ball of coarse dark hair, wiry muscle, pale skin and sloppy linen. Goten was the miniature version of his father, as sweet and uncomplicated, with the mischievous penchant for practical jokes. Goten and Geta had been inseparable since infancy and were studies in contrast. Goten was as sloppy as Geta was fastidiously neat, Geta was as sarcastic and brutally intelligent as Goten was guileless and simple. Both were monstrously strong for their age, teetering on the cusp of manhood.      

 

“Hey!” Geta growled, “don’t you have any manners, you third-class moron?! That’s _my_ muffin!”

 

Goten, who was shoveling both Geta’s coveted blueberry muffin and a piece of honeyed _y’far_ in his mouth, only looked innocently up at the prince.

 

“Aw, c’mon on Geta, can’t you share?” he asked, words garbled by the half-masticated food rolling around in his mouth. Rudaiya didn’t know whether to be amused or disgusted. Geta snatched up the remainder of his cache and snarled superciliously, “I’d _share_ , nitwit, if you _asked_! I swear, Goten, you have the manners of a grunting cave bear!”

 

“The appetite too. No, it would be _two_ cave bears, right Geta?” Rudaiya put in, polishing off the last of her soda and bagel. Goten giggled unabashedly, eyes crinkled into crescents of amusement. It didn’t take one of Rudaiya’s abilities to sense that Goten enjoyed ruffling Geta’s feathers. The wry comment seemed to diffuse Geta’s temper, for he grunted, arms folded across his chest. In Geta-speak, that particular grunt meant ‘I see no point in arguing, but I’m still angry with you. I might forgive you, but not until _much_ later.’

 

She shook her head and rose, yawning. Flicking her hand in a nonchalant wave over her shoulder, Rudaiya sauntered to the door.

 

“If you haven’t killed each other over muffins, I’ll see you at breakfast boys.”

 

“Bye, Daiya!” Goten called after her brightly. Then, as she entered the palace, she heard him ask Geta, “Man Geta, did she do that to your nose?”

 

Suddenly, all the pains of the morning were worth it.

<^>

Zorn’s nimble black gaze raked over the hall, the green glass of his scouter murmuring and chirping as it sought out rogue kis.

At the late hour, every ki within range was in the low, slow-burn of sleep. Caution whispered into his ear and he focused and pushed his mind out. There seemed to be no end to King Vegeta’s tricks and Zorn was wise enough not to leave something like this to the vagrancies of technology. King Vegeta was safely in slumber with his woman, tangled amid the wreckage of discarded clothing and bedclothes. Growling in disgust, Zorn widened the aperture of his search, raking over Prince Trunks and Sansai, blissfully asleep after the throes of passion, the king’s other half-breed and Prince Trunks’ brats . . . gods, they multiplied like rabbits!

All asleep.

 

Only when he was sure did Zorn, press the mechanism disguised as a loose tile. With a soft whirr of machinery, the lift bore him down to a forgotten bunker, the floor melding seamlessly above him, rigged with ki dampers and the highest of security measures. If King Vegeta ever learned that his father was fomenting a rebellion under his very nose . . .

Zorn shuddered.

If that were to happen, it would be better to die like a coward than to face the king’s wrath.

 

The lift creaked to a stop. His father and his inner circle, including several members of the Council and the White Fist looked up at his entry, and then ignored him completely. Zorn stifled a snarl at the dark promise in his father’s eyes. There was no hiding anything from his father’s shrewd, gelid gaze. One glance at Zorn would reveal he had lost all taste for intrigues.

 

In years past, nursed on tales of Elite supremacy and weaned on hatred of half-breeds and their bitch mothers, Zorn relished conniving plans, convoluted designs to regain imagined losses and right supposed indignities. It had indeed been a purely political move in jumping in the path of the blast meant to kill King Vegeta’s Earthling mate all those years ago on Lenore. It had been tempting, watching the seething red ki winging at lethal trajectory, to simply let it fly, let it pierce her soft breast and watch her go limp, watch the half-breed growing in her belly die with her. He wanted to see that beguiling beauty, the witch’s blue eyes that sent stabs of lust burning through him extinguished, to see his shameful wanting die. Yes, a bitter pill for him to swallow, taking that blast.

His fingers strayed to the mark on his shoulder, a blooming white flower of scar tissue.  King Vegeta, twice as fiercely intelligent as Tarah, had seen through it, watching him with those sharp, knowing green eyes.

 _Legendary . . ._   

 

Tarah rose, dressed in flowing purple robes, bedecked in gold jewelry. _A pretender,_ Zorn thought darkly, _a bloody peacock. That’s all he is._ Disillusionment was another bitter draught, and it turned his belly every time he looked at the man who had sired him. With a magnanimous wave of his hand, Tarah dismissed the meeting, its members scattered in their own furtive means. Gods help them if King Vegeta’s woman discovered a means to see through their shields.

 

When they were alone in the dank chamber, the look of serious good humor dropped from his father’s face, revealing the depth and breadth of his fury. Zorn saw the blow coming and caught his backhanded swipe. Tarah’s many ringed hand trembled within his grip as he struggled to bear the blow home.

A smirk curved his lips, full of mocking disgust.

 

“What, are you unhappy to see me, Father?” Zorn drawled, squeezing the captured wrist until pain twisted his father’s features.

 

“Idiot boy!” Tarah spat, rubbing his wrist as Zorn let him go, “if there is a weak link in my plan, it would be you! Any one of them could see the betrayal in your eyes! I swear by all the gods, I’ll kill her myself if you entertain any more thoughts of defection!”

 

Zorn moved without thinking, slamming Tarah against the wall, holding him up with a fistful of his expensive purple robe. A twisted irony, these feelings in his heart. His whole life, one big fucking joke.

 

“Who are you to threaten me, old man? What’s to stop me from waking King Vegeta right now and telling him of your little plan? He is not the most forgiving man.”

 

Even his little pet, Bardock the Seer, had lost the king’s trust concerning the woman. That soft, fragile blue woman, the one chink in the king’s armor. Tarah laughed, a low, unpleasant sound.

 

“Then you would die with the rest of us, my son. I don’t think King Vegeta would look kindly on you--”

 

“Under your direction,” Zorn shot back, his mouth tipping in a wolfish grin, “I am totally innocent.”

 

He relished the fear playing over his father’s features, then the slavish pleading. Outmaneuvering him was easy now, Zorn had been raised on subtle threats and political posturing.  

 

“Now, son . . .” he began.

 

“Save your sniveling for someone who gives a fuck, Father.” Zorn snarled in disgust, shoving him away. He stalked over to a low table and snapped up several delicacies.

 

“I don’t understand you, Zorn. I’m offering you the Empire, to start a new dynasty with you as the patriarch!” Tarah said, a manic gleam in his eye. Zorn dropped his gaze, hiding his hatred inside. _No Father. No, you don’t want it for me. You want power to appease your vanity and greed. You want to kill King Vegeta’s mate out of spite and her children with her._

 

Hollowly, Zorn asked, “When will it begin?”

 

“As soon as King Vegeta goes off-world. He is no fool and covets the woman above all else. He will not leave her even under the care of his strong half-breed and his second-class mate. Once he leaves, we’ll kill them all and take control of the planet. Even the Legendary cannot stand up to us all.”

 

“How will you contend with their power? Vegeta, Trunks, Sansai, even Kakkarot have more power than you can imagine. You are less than nothing next to him.”

 

“Have no fear, my son,” Tarah said consolingly, his voice husky with lust.

Lust for power he could almost touch.

 

“I have devised a means to even the playing field, so to speak. So . . . you are with me? You will stand with us?”

 

The question echoed faintly in the bunker, the song of doom, Zorn thought. What choice did he have? Despite his posturing, there was no hope for reprieve.

King Vegeta was not a forgiving man.

And there was no forgiving what Zorn had done. 

 

The momentum of his father’s plan was building, the deadly inertia of a landslide. What was one more pebble?

 

“Yes. I am with you,” Zorn said softly, sealing his own fate.


	3. Yardrat

Even air trembled and rippled at each movement of his sword, a swift, silver whistling. Sansai paused her own workout to watch her mate practice his forms with his sword. There was poetry in his movements and a rhythm to them, a lethal dance unlike any she had ever seen. The Saiyan way of fighting, all fire, all fist and aggression, had its own dance, but Trunks’ sword carved a more elegant path.

 

Her eyes took in the shimmering broadsword, which he wielded as if it were a weightless fencing foil. Her eyes roved over the knotted muscles of his arm, rippling with each movement, his skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. His chest was magnificent, bare in the midday sun, muscles of iron knit together in splendid symmetry, the swells of his pectorals tapering to the knots of his abdominals. His loose black pants hid the bulging trunks of his legs, and Sansai had the absurd and undeniably pleasant image of him practicing naked. A languid pang of desire coiled in her belly. Gods, she wanted to lick the sweat from the clean lines of his muscles, submerge herself in his taste and scent.

 

_It makes it hard to concentrate with you looking like a cat and me the mouse!_

 

His voice echoed laughingly in her head, put she felt the low tremor of reciprocated desire, and saw herself through his eyes, paused perfectly steady mid push-up, balanced on one knuckle, eyes dilated into pools of midnight. Her shirt was loose and he saw the shapes of her breasts, nipples taut. Her body lean and catlike and dangerous, so exquisitely beautiful to him . . . in his head she saw her lust reflected, felt the current of love too great to cheapen with words. 

 

Sansai grinned, following the sinews of his throat, up to the chiseled planes of his face, as dear and familiar to her as her own heartbeat. His thick lavender hair was loose, falling in gleaming silk to his shoulders, one stubborn piece hanging in his eyes. Smug pride filled her; she alone had the honor of being his mate.

He was hers.

 

_You are beautiful, my mate. You rouse my . . . prurience simply by being._

 

A smile dazzled her, animal white teeth shining. The scar on his cheek stretched and creased with the expression and Sansai once more wished King Cold a happy eternity in a fiery Hell.

 

_Likewise, Beloved._

        

Sansai rose, intending to go to him and end the sweet torture of separation. But then she remembered where they were. At their home, tucked peacefully in the forest, she could have pinned him to the ground and taken him without fear of reproach. But here at the Capital, there were eyes and ears everywhere, especially impressionable young ones, like Trunks’ younger siblings as well as Gohan’s and Rudaiya’s. Sansai sighed and reached out with her mind, gently grazing the minds of her children and felt the flower of joy bloom in response. Gohan was sitting attentively to an Elite historian, Ceylon, lecture on Planet Vegeta’s history and Rudaiya was tagging along after Turles and Goten to Kakkarot’s house in the wilderness for a midday snack.

 

Trunks lowered his sword, eyeing her with his warm, thoughtful expression, making her feel beautiful and loved only in his gaze. With a nonchalant toss, he flung the sword in the air, not taking his eyes from her. Hovering breathlessly in the air for a few seconds, the blade slid into its sheath across his back with a shrug of one shoulder.

 

 _I love that trick,_ she thought to him. He winked at her.

 

Sansai turned her attention along a more serious vein. In their four year odyssey across the Empire, Trunks had found kindred swordsmen on Zala, an idyllic planet as well as a center of commerce. They spent a whole year on Zala, Trunks learning their forms and techniques to augment his own skill, and Sansai continuing their stealthy search for the _Sorva_.

It was what needed to be done, traveling, picking up useful techniques in preparation for what was to come.

 

“That’s it!” she cried, a thought blazing into her like a meteor from Heaven.

 

“That’s _it_!”

 

Laughing, she held his confused face between her hands and kissed him.

 

“Why didn’t we think of this before?” she shouted.

 

“Whoa, Sansai. What are you talking about?” Trunks asked, smiling, holding her lightly. She kissed him again, a brief, fierce press of hunger and joy. She calmed herself and gathered the words.

 

“You told me of the other time you went to save. The reason you fought Frieza and King Cold was because you didn’t know Kakkarot had that ability . . .”

 

“ _Shunkan Idō._ Instant Transmission,” Trunks supplied solemnly, “what’s your point?”

 

“The point is,” Sansai said excitedly, “that the Yardratians probably have more psychic power than we can fathom.”

 

Understanding blazed in his eyes.

 

“Bardock,” he stated.

 

Sansai nodded. Breaking away from him, she paced.

 

“Not only could they help Bardock control the Kanassans’ Gift, but maybe they could even train Bra. She has learned all any Saiyan could teach her. Not to mention that King Vegeta would want to learn this Instant Transmission.”

 

Trunks nodded, his eyes bright, reflecting her excitement.

 

“Sansai, you’re a genius. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

 

Sansai grinned smugly, her tail winding affectionately around his waist.

 

“I don’t mind sharing the credit. Not with you.”

 

<^>

Rudaiya wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, her keen senses obscured by a haze of childish jealousy, anger and frustration. As she turned the corner she slammed into a towering wall of white, a cold, sinuous life.

 

“Watch where you’re going!” Rudaiya howled from the floor. Then she blinked, eyes traveling up every inch of Zul-sensei’s seven-foot plus height of sleek muscularity to his blood red eyes looking on in a mix of amusement and irritation.

 

“My, what fine manners, little monkey. Been taking lessons from your grandfather, have you?” he said coolly, sneering down at her with mocking superiority greater than even Geta’s. His mouth twitched, but whether in a scowl or smile, she wasn’t sure. Heat flooded her face and she leapt up, lowering her gaze to the gold tips of her boots.

 

“Forgive me, Zul-sensei,” she mumbled. He snorted, a delicate, feminine huff. While more masculine then most members of his race, Zul still exhibited occasional effeminate mannerisms that reminded Rudaiya that Ice were never entirely one gender.

 

“You looked like a blizzard just hitting its stride. Appease my curiosity.”

 

Rudaiya, used to his questions phrased as commands or observations, only sighed. Petulantly, she kicked a nearby pillar, cursing when it cracked. _I hope Gran doesn’t see that. All I need is another lecture,_ she thought uncharitably. Leaning beside Zul-sensei against the wall, Rudaiya addressed the inert column of his tail.

 

“Grandfather and Gran are going to Yardrat. Along with Bardock _and_ Kakkarot _and_ Chi-Chi _and_ Bra! They leave as soon as preparations can be made. Sometime within the next two weeks, more than likely. It’s not fair! She’s not even a warrior and she gets to go with Grandfather?”

 

“How tragic,” Zul-sensei muttered.

 

“I’m serious!” she snapped, stamping her foot.

 

Now there was a definite upward curl to his black lips. The shadows burnished clean, white lines of him in dusky twilit blues and the anger in her belly softened in a sudden rush of affection. Like Grandfather, Zul-sensei was a constant in her life, and, in his own curt fashion, had comforted her in her parents’ absence.   

 

“No doubt, little monkey. But I side with your parents in this, which might be a sign of an apocalypse.”

 

Rudaiya giggled. Zul-sensei’s sarcastic, unsmiling jokes never failed to make her laugh. His red eyes watched her steadily, with a tranquil strength like a weather-worn mountain.

 

Rudaiya frowned. His opinion weighed a great deal with her. She exhaled heavily, raking a hand through her hair. She remembered with crystal clarity the warning gleam in Mama’s eyes when she had protested in an irate shout that it was her right to travel with them, as princess of Planet Vegeta. The downward turn of Papa’s mouth made her twitch with discomfort, but she hadn’t swayed.

 _‘Go with your brother,’_ Mama had said when Grandfather dismissed them.

_‘But Mama, I--’_

Again that flashing glare, the upsweep of her chin in motherly indignation.

 _‘Rudaiya. Must I tell you again?’_ the words were quietly spoken, but laced with the steel of anger. Rudaiya quieted under the weight of her glare, her anger smoldering mutinously under her skin. When she explained as much to Zul-sensei, his upper lip twitched in the barest remnant of a snarl.

 

“Damned female drama . . . like I give a damn . . .” he grumbled, tail lashing back and forth. Crossing his arms across his chest, he glared down his nose at her. Rudaiya did not smile. As much as he complained, she knew where his loyalties lay.

 

“So I suppose, little monkey, that you feel some . . . distance with your mother? It is common with a cub your age.” The words sounded as if she had torn them from his throat by slow torture.

 

Rudaiya sighed and looked out the window. Normally the windswept, breathtakingly beautiful vistas always calmed her spirit. But the stars beginning to appear in the mantle of heaven overhead reminded her of the adventure denied her.

 

“No. My mother is brave and strong and loyal and I am proud to call her mine. But that’s just it!” she cried, looking up into this implicitly trusted, dearly loved face, an immutable plane of finely-hewn marble to other eyes.

 

“I have her face and her spirit, her courage and pride. Why then, does she deny me what was given to her? For ten years she served Grandfather on his squad, fighting alongside other warriors in defense of the Empire.”

 

“Perhaps she wants something better for you. Parents normally do for their offspring. Often a vain hope, but hope is an insidious thing. And hope disappointed scars the soul.”

 

Zul-sensei’s voice took on an almost wistful tone that she had never heard before and she glanced up in askance. He wasn’t looking at her, but up at the stars. Bright, cold stars set in whirling pinwheels of chaotic design. What did he see among their shapes? The home he had lost? The wealth and position that belonged to the lord of Frieza’s army? It must be a bitter draught, she thought with a sudden flash of insight, for one of such immense pride and dignity as Zul-sensei to live on a planet not his own, without even the power to walk where he willed without harassment and suspicion. All her anger disappeared like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

 

Suddenly, he turned, looking down at her, his red eyes burning out of the semi-darkness like livid coals. So fierce and so hot was his gaze that his cold hand on her shoulder, a rare neutral contact, raised gooseflesh on her skin.                         

 

“This needs to be done. Your young aunt has an ability that I have never seen in my nine centuries. You and all the other Saiyan cubs are needed here to learn. To train. To be ready for what is to come.”

 

His words quickened something in her heart. The sense of doom, the worry she gleaned from others’ emotions, Papa and Mama’s frenetic trip throughout space . . . all of it suddenly made sense.

 

The scar of resentment, hidden and never completely healed dissolved at this realization. Not even her most selfish thoughts could sanction her happiness over the fate of the Universe. Staying home on Planet Vegeta now became a wise and purposeful mission.

 

“Thank you, Zul-sensei,” Rudaiya choked.

 

The words had no more left her lips then he slid past her like a shadow, the soft haze of night blurring his edges. Half-cloaked in darkness, he looked like a shade stalking the halls. Rudaiya shrugged and took three steps down the hall.

 

“Little monkey,” said a soft, disembodied voice, cool and slithering like silk. Rudaiya turned her head towards its source.

 

“About Raditz’s boy. If I can see it, then your parents can see it. Tread softly, daughter of Sansai.”

 

An admonishment, a mockery and a warning all wrapped into one. If anything, Grandfather should take lessons from Zul-sensei.

 

“I will. Zul-sensei,” she called after him as he began to walk away. His head cocked slightly, listening.

 

“Raditz is taking me, Gohan, Geta, Goten and Turles into the forest for a camping trip. I would like it if you came.”

A soft, sibilant chuckle tickled her ears. And then he was gone.

<^>

Bra found she didn’t like Bardock.

 

Or, more specifically, she didn’t like standing near Bardock. His mind had a strange taste and if she got too close, her mind was swallowed up in all his swirling visions. Very distracting. And painful.

 

Bra stayed close to her mother’s side, watching as Papa’s friend Kakkarot walked with Bardock up the ramp of their ship. Mirror images of each other, Bra admired the identical tilt of head and tread of step. Physically, there were only minute differences. While Kakkarot’s skin was smooth and pale, Bardock’s was a deep olive tone, his cheek bisected by a scar like Trunks-nissan’s. But one look in his tortured black eyes dispelled any notion of youth. His eyes held the ravages of centuries. 

 

As they passed, Bra was smote once more with thousands of images. She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her strength at the influx of memories and thoughts and potentialities and slowly they faded behind the carefully erected walls she had built around the sanctum of her soul, enforced by habit, leaving her sweaty and breathless with the effort. She focused on Kakkarot to block Bardock’s seething mind, made all the more horrible because he was _aware_. Aware of his loss of control, dreadfully aware of what lay ahead. Bra shuddered away from the images of Trunks-nissan in a pool of blood, of Papa crowned in the fierce gold of power, facing enemies beyond number. 

 

Kakkarot had the same bewildering, fragmented division as Papa, two lives, two radically different sets of circumstances somehow coexisting in unity. Bra found it fascinating and listened carefully to the rhythms of Papa’s thoughts, linking the pictures together into one cohesive image like one of Mom’s puzzles. And then there was the bond. Another fascinating anomaly. The most integral part of the soul woven inextricably, most obviously manifested in color or sound. Bra frowned, concentrating. The careful cataloging soothed the frayed edges of her focus.  

Papa and Mom, blue like the sea and gold like the sun.

Kakkarot and Chi-Chi, a bright, happy orange and the flash of blue steel.

Trunks-nissan and Sansai-neesan, deep, forest quiet and all the colors and textures of song.

 

Bra felt excitement bubble inside her as well as a smug happiness at the look on Daiya’s face. Yardrat was an adventure, a special privilege only for her, Princess of Planet Vegeta, with her parents all to herself.

Her only regret . . .

Unconsciously, she grazed over the kis around her, searching for the whispering light as familiar to her as her mother’s face.

 _His_ ki.

 _His_ light.

The beauty of his soul wrapped around her for one heady instant, giddy joy filling her when she found him. Soon.

Soon they would stand in the sunshine as mates and Papa would finally understand.

 

She disentangled herself at Mom’s prod on her arm. Blinking back to awareness, she followed Chi-Chi’s and Fasha’s progress inside the ship, Chi-Chi stealing one last hug from her precious Goten.

 

“Time to go, hun. Excited?” Mom asked, the blue eyes they shared sparking with their own joy. Her own heart leapt up to match the pace of her mother’s and her thoughts filtered through her mind like a summer breeze, warm and fragrant with the promise of a stormy night. Mom’s worry frightened her. Mom, the capable one, the crafty one, who, with only her hands and mind, had bridged the gap between this time and the time she’d been born to. Bra herself would never have been born if not for her mother’s genius.

 

Bra only nodded. She didn’t even remember to grin at Daiya. The elder girl hated catty charm more than anything.

 

Trunks-nissan, speaking quietly with Papa in his warm, mellow voice, turned to her and she was struck momentarily by the solid wall of his determination, the steely hard perseverance that had seen him through trial after trial, loss after loss. Then haunting images of a scarred, dark-haired warrior faded as his strong arms enfolded her in an embrace.

 

“Remember to keep the rest of them in line, Sister,” he whispered in her ear.

 

“I will, Trunks-nissan,” she whispered back, “tell Sansai-neesan I’ll be fine. She worries.”

 

Nodding, Trunks-nissan moved on to bade Papa and Mom farewell. Behind him was Geta, who squeezed her hard enough to compress her ribs. Her heart contracted in a sudden wave of nostalgia. Of all of them, she loved Geta most. Her adored older brother, quick to quip and too clever by half. And Goten, his ever-loyal, ever-present shadow, goofy and carefree, as sweet and light as Chi-Chi’s confections. Whether it was Bardock’s unsettling presence or her own power, she had the dreadful feeling that she might not see them alive again. Tears streaming unabashedly down her cheeks, she embraced them, a tangle of hair and muscle and wound tails. Embarrassed, Geta disengaged first, offering a sheepish grin.   

 

“Don’t neglect your katas, Bra. The Princess of Saiyans should never forget to train,” he said gruffly, blue eyes darting elsewhere.

 

Last were Rudaiya and Gohan. Daiya hugged her fast and gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder for good measure. Bra could discern no resentment in her, which was both a relief and disappointment. Daiya was more a sister than a niece, but rubbing the honor into her warrior face was too sweet an opportunity to pass up. Gohan was a blaze of light, with all the benevolence and innocence it implied. There was a mean or angry bone in his body. His hug was exuberant and strong; his kiss on her cheek warm and firm.

 

“Have fun, Bra. I love you.”

 

The words came easy for him, and she could no more resist his sweetness than a flower could resist the sun’s gentle coaxing.

 

“Goodbye, Gohan. I’ll see you soon,” Bra said softly.  Then she followed Papa and Mom up the ramp to a hail of goodbyes. Her last sight of Planet Vegeta was all her loved ones gathered on the platform as they had welcoming Trunks-nissan and Sansai-neesan home. She prayed to any god that would listen that the heavy, dreading feeling in her stomach was just nerves.

<^>

Chi-Chi watched star of Planet Vegeta’s solar system grow smaller and smaller until it was no longer discernable from the chaos of tangled constellations. She fisted a hand on her belly, willing the knot of fear to unwind. He was fine. Goten would be fine.

There were Trunks and Raditz and the other kids to keep him safe. Despite her fear for him, Chi-Chi could not regret following her husband. There was no way in hell that he would go gallivanting off into space for gods knew how long to train with Vegeta!

He had done that before.

For months, _years_ at a time.

 

A tiny part of her, under the practiced nonchalance, under the miffed pride, wondered what she had done to drive him away, that felt inadequate and worthless. And angry at herself for feeling these things.

 

Warm, strong arms slid around her, a soft, furry tail slipping comfortably around her waist. His lips tickled the soft skin behind her ear and Chi-Chi shivered slightly. Her sweet Goku, before it was always her who had initiated their most intimate moments, something she had always felt slightly guilty for, as if she had sullied the purity in him with her carnality. It was different now.  He was the same kind man she had fell in love with, but, she was ashamed to admit, had the full measure of his intelligence.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair, squeezing her a little tighter. She shifted slightly in his grip, cocking her head to look at him. His thick brows gathered in an expression of sadness. His thoughts wove with hers in the blessed stillness of the bond and Chi-Chi chastised herself for her self-pity.

 

“No. You’re right. I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you. I want it to be good for you. This life of ours.”

 

Gently, he turned her to face him, cradling her hands between his hands. The good-natured shine in his dark eyes was still there, but altered with more serious glimmers of worry, fear and desire.

 

“I’ve made you happy, haven’t I, Chi-Chi?” there was the barest note of pleading in his voice that broke whatever brittle armor she still hefted against him into shining pieces.

 

“Yes,” she whispered, too choked to say more.

What could she tell him? That the little home he had built for her in the mountains, like their home on Earth, felt to her like a permanent remnant of his embrace? That the son he had given her helped heal the grief of Gohan’s passing? That she loved him more than she ever thought possible, that she thanked the gods for the bond woven between them, binding them forever?

 

For once, Chi-Chi agreed with Vegeta. Words were cheap and wooden things. Three words were too few to encompass all she felt. But still she said them, whispering them against his lips as they kissed.

<^>

“At last,” Tarah breathed, as the pinprick of King Vegeta’s ship disappeared from the range of the handheld nav computer he carried.

 

“When you return, Vegeta, you will find your palace in ruins and all your half-breeds dead.”

 

Tarah turned, his extravagant robes rippling dramatically as he moved.

 

“It will have to be someone he trusts.”

 

“Yes,” Zorn replied, accepting the silver disc thrust into his hands, “someone he trusts.”

<^>

Bulma considered herself a well-traveled and well-educated woman, more so than any human before her.

 

But still she didn’t know what to make of the Yardratians. From their six-toed feet to the tops of their rounded red skulls, they only came mid-chest to Bulma. Their yellow eyes stared, clustered curiously around their ship. A dim and distant memory of Goku returning home flickered to life upon seeing their eclectic dress. Smiling uncertainly at Vegeta’s side, Bulma surveyed them carefully, trying to pick out some sort of leader or dignitary.

 

A coded hyper light message had been sent presaging their arrival, asking for their aid. When no sort of leader was forthcoming, Vegeta expressed gratefulness for their cooperation, which their translator related in a complex series of clicks and snaps. Bulma wondered if these peaceful folk had agreed out of their own moral generosity or feared the Empire’s wrath. By any standard, she thought, casting a hooded glance at his erect, forbidding posture, her husband was an intimidating man. 

 

But the diminutive people seemed eager to help, ministering to Bardock first. Their hands glowed a soft and gentle green, shrouding him in their energy. All the dreadful tension in the old warrior’s body relaxed and Fasha hovering tight-lipped to one side, relaxed with him. With a cacophony of clicks, supposedly a platitude or command to follow, the Yardratians carried Bardock, who lay suspended on a bier of psychic energy as he slumbered. Although he was halfway through his eighth decade, the scarred warrior showed no visible signs of aging, in fact, relaxed in repose as he was, he and Goku could pass for brothers.

 

The Yardratians led them down a winding path to their designated caves carved from the faces of sheer cliffs, a thundering torrent of orange-hued water rushing hundreds of feet below. The path was steady, but Bulma dragged in a breath. While heights had never fazed her, a childhood scare left her deathly afraid of fast-running water. Vegeta’s tail wound around her waist and squeezed reassuringly.

 

_Courage, my mate. I won’t let you fall._

 

Bulma smiled weakly and leaned her head against his shoulder. Years before, such a gesture would have earned her a cold shrug and a hard glance and Bra’s clinging hand would have been shaken off with brusque cruelty. But that Vegeta was many years’ dead. Their nine year old daughter instead watched the Yardratians from the safety of her father’s shadow, blue eyes wide.

 

Bulma checked and rechecked the watch around her wrist. Done in frustration at being unable to keep track of a bunch of rambunctious children, Bulma had installed a tiny transmitter under the hairline at the nape of the neck on Geta, Bra, Goten, Turles, Rudaiya and Gohan. It seemed that every time their tight-knit group of incredibly powerful Saiyans splintered, something terrible happened. And, light-years away, there was nothing they could do to help.


	4. The First Cut is the Deepest

Monotonous landscape scrolled beneath him, cool, moist air whistling his ears as he flew. A sort of giddy joy filled him, a strange sense of freedom lightening his heart. To set aside his responsibilities for a short while was liberating and Vegeta, King of Saiyans, the Legendary, a man of fifty-five years, grinned like a carefree youth under the light of Yardrat’s red sun. He performed several corkscrew spirals among the clouds, luxuriating in the cool puff of moisture condensating on his face and limbs. He poured on more speed, the clouds emitting a muted hiss of protest at the scorch of his ki.

 

Kakkarot’s ki, and the feeble ki of their Yardratian sensei F’taangk, blazed among the relatively barren fauna of the countryside. He landed on the flat salt plain, blindingly, startlingly white after subdued tones of forest and mountain. Heat rose up and smothered him in its embrace and Vegeta struggled to breathe in heavy, torrid air. The diminutive Yardratian made a series of complex obeisances to him in greeting. He knew only the rudiments of the standard speech, but he more than made up for it in mind pictures and impressions of image, sound and even scent.

 

“Morning, Vegeta! F’taangk and the other Elders said they would help heal Father today. Isn’t that great?” he asked brightly. Vegeta’s pleasure deepened. This was good news. Bra too, was taking well to her Yardratian training, not even their group of elders had seen the like of her. He smirked to himself. His only daughter held a special place in his heart and it took every ounce of his will and mental conditioning not to dote upon her, much to the amusement of his woman.

 

Vegeta’s eyes moved over Kakkarot’s form, not bothering to conceal his amusement at the other Saiyan’s dress. In the latest Yardratian fashion, the ruffled collar, ragtag armor and garish red pants affronted Vegeta’s Saiyan dignity. Kakkarot, on the other hand, took to the ways of the indigenous people in their week-long stay. Rolling his eyes, Vegeta said, “This is good. Now, shall we begin? Once I learn Instant Transmission, third class, I can beat your ass in a whole other dimension.”    

 

 

 

 

They returned to their caves that night bruised and tired not only in mind, but in body. They parted ways at the lip of the cliff, and, grateful for his woman’s store of Senzu waiting for him, limped down the swinging gangway to their cave. By Yardratian standards, theirs was the finest on the planet. Flameless lanterns, in eerie shades of purple and green, diffused the interior with pools of even light, creating an oddly aquatic impression. The walls glittered with embedded crystal, the floor and sleep space adorned with the finest of their embroidery.

 

His woman was absent. Frowning, Vegeta nudged the discarded array of tools and innards of several bots strewn on the floor with the toe of his boot. _No doubt she’s off with that ‘gearhead’ Drani Jeh’a blathering about their trinkets,_ he thought. A slight graze of ki found Bra deep in concentration, her consciousness focusing, buckling and sliding in strange undulations, the depths of which he could not probe. He shook his head. What Yardrat lacked in accommodations it made up for it with the sheer novelty of technique and lifestyle.

 

Vegeta had made progress in his training and, upon impulse, focused on his woman.

Her image and ki were easy to summon; he knew them as he knew his own face. Soft, pale, beautiful, her hair lustrous and as blue as Earth’s boundless seas, the music of her voice, raised in a siren’s song in anger or whispering words that touched some place deep within him. Her ki was a tiny kernel of stubborn spirit, no stronger than the weakest of Saiyan children.

 

Vegeta emptied himself of all thought except for her. Focus, will and power he had in spades, but the fluid, mystical energy F’taangk urged him to tap was a challenge. Tricky business, this teleportation. If he was off by a fraction, he would be trapped in a pocket dimension. Stubbornly, he refused to adopt the pose of Instant Transmission, with two fingers pressed to his brow.

 _Focus my chakras, my ass,_ he grumbled.

 

Instead, he said: “Bulma.”

Her name was an incantation, and all that was within him surged toward her. In a millisecond, a vertigo of multi-colored light whirled about him, a startling sense of weightlessness and he was staring into her eyes, wide with shock. His face broke out in a smile of triumph.

 

“I did it,” he said simply. She laughed, a delighted sound of surprise and he recognized the scientists’ appetite for a dissection of the unexplainable in her eye.

 

“You did it all right. And nearly scared Jeh’a to death in the process!”

 

Smirking smugly, Vegeta cast a wry glance at the trembling Drani.  

 

_Take that, Kakkarot._

<^>

Gohan bounded down the halls of the palace, his tail swinging in rhythm to the fragment of song he hummed. He didn’t have Daiya’s talent for singing, so his humming was off-key, but he had a quick mind like Gran, and a quicker sword hand like Papa. The blade sheathed across his back was shining, blued metal, thinner than his father’s long sword, single-edged, a blade as sharp and elegant as Zala craftsman could forge, etched with calligraphy he couldn’t read. He liked tracing the sloping shapes, and had asked Papa what they meant. He told him that it was the Zalan tradition to give a sword a name. Papa’s was _Slythr’en_ , which meant ‘Blade Who Sings.’ Gohan’s sword was named _Zaa’rok_ , or ‘Blood-biter.’ There was a romantic sort of poetry in it and Gohan decided he would go to Zala someday, and learn as Papa had.

 

His shirt clung to his skin in places, molding to the sweat-slicked planes of his chest. Papa had taken the reins of his training, and Gohan all but danced with joy at the look of loving pride on his face. He had the instincts of a swordsman, Papa said. It suited Gohan just fine. He didn’t like bloody-faced brawls like Geta. He didn’t like hurting people at all. But with the sword, if he must end a life, it was quick and clean and honorable.

 

Planet Vegeta’s gold sun was warm and gentle on his shoulders, and excitement leapt like a burst of ki in his heart. Soon— _today_ —all of them would go into the wilds for a camping trip. Gohan nearly wriggled in delight at the thought of sparring and exploring with the ones he loved most. Raditz even promised to bring teach them the ki moon technique so they could wrestle as _oozaru_. There was one flaw in his fine mood and a profound one if he dwelled upon it too long. Papa and Mama had to stay here. And Grandfather, Gran, and Bra were far away. He didn’t like not being able to reach out and touch their minds, or feel their ki surrounding him in stars of familiar warmth. His fingers tightened around the stems of a cluster of white roses from Gran’s garden. Mama loved when he picked flowers for her.  Gran had been clever enough to remove to genetic coding for thorns in her roses.

 

Gohan stopped at the threshold, watching in uncharacteristic silence the scene before him, his flowers in his fist. Mama and Daiya sat in a pool of honeyed sunlight, dust motes dancing in the thick, slanting beams. Their hair gleamed a matching blue-black, Mama’s spiky and wild, Daiya’s silky like Gohan’s own. Every angled, almost savage plane of Mama’s features was echoed in Daiya’s delicate profile.

 

Daiya was training under Mama to become a _kahntor_ and their voices melded in the sweetest melody Gohan had ever heard. Mama’s voice was raspy and warm, like thick tendrils of a campfire’s white smoke, while Daiya’s had a higher, clearer tone, like the ring of fine crystal. The Saiyago song died away, ringing in his ears like the memory of ki. A grin split his face; matching the one that Mama gifted Daiya.

 

“Well done, Rudaiya. Excellent tone and control.”

 

Daiya blushed under Mama’s praise. Eyes still shining with pride and amusement, Mama continued: “The one thing to improve upon is your enunciation. Some of the syllables sound the same in Saiyago, so you need to be careful with your mouth shape: _ah_ instead of _eh_.”

 

Daiya nodded seriously. Then, as Mama began gathering up their materials, books and mini comps and pitch pipes, Daiya turned the conversation along a less studious vein.

 

“I wish you and Papa could come with us. Goten says his mom taught him to make this Earthling sweet called s’mores.”

 

A subterranean purr of hunger rippled in Gohan’s stomach. The pleasant crisp of graham crackers, a heavenly marriage of half-melted chocolate and marshmallow . . .

 

“Sounds delicious,” Mama put in.

 

“Yeah! And Turles promised to show me his carvings,” Daiya said.

 

A shadow darted across the skylight above them and a similar flicker of uncertainty filtered through Mama’s emotions. Gohan paused, stopped short by the sudden change. What was it about Turles? Gohan peered through the cracked door, content to watch and to listen for the moment. 

 

“Rudaiya, _kou’ish tor’ktsu_ . . .”

 

“What is it, Mama?” Daiya asked, a mirroring frown marring her brow. Mama leaned forward and grasped Daiya’s hand between her own, her expression one of concern and love.

 

“What are your . . . intentions regarding Turles?” she asked, with that soft tone that she only used with the two of them. Gohan’s heart swelled with a rush of love.

 

Daiya’s eyes darkened in a dangerous expression, a fierce scowl not unlike Grandfather’s.

 

“My intentions? When we’re adults, after the Trial of the Moon, then . . . then we were going to . . .”

 

“Be mated?” Mama finished, her frown deepening. Daiya coughed in embarrassment and nodded once. Gohan’s upper lip wrinkled. As far as he was concerned, girls were playmates and sparring partners. But Daiya . . . she was talking about what Papa and Mama were, something serious and adult. Like the mysterious things their parents did in their room at night, making strange noises and looked like they were wrestling under the covers.

 _Gross!_ He thought.

 

“Rudaiya, I . . . I don’t you to rush into this. What you’re feeling isn’t uncommon and in a few years you might—”

 

His sister leapt to her feet, fists balled, eyes blazing. Gohan knew that her expression normally preceded a flying fist or an explosion of foul words that made his ears burn. Daiya was more like Grandfather in that respect.

 

“I’ll what?” Daiya snapped querulously, “Forget about him? I love him, Mama! Just like you love Papa! We--”

 

There was a subtle shift in Mama’s features, the concern and perplexity were still there, but tempered by the deadly shine in her black eyes.

 

“Sit. Down,” she said softly, the words cracking the air like a snap of ice. Daiya sat, glaring mutinously at her mother. Glaring down her nose at her offspring, Mama said, “You cannot know that you love Turles. Gods, Rudaiya, you’re barely twelve!”

 

“I’ll be thirteen in a few months! And then fourteen, then fifteen and he will be mine! I want him!” Daiya contested hotly, her eyes overbright with tears. Of anger or sadness, Gohan wasn’t sure.

 

“How is it different, Mama?” her voice quavered only the tiniest bit, one tear streaking down her cheek. It shone like a sphere of liquid gold in the sunlight, “How is it different from when you were young? When you saw Papa, you knew. You _knew_ that you loved him and wanted him as yours. Just like I want Turles.”

 

The lethal anger ebbed out of Mama’s expression, replaced with an unutterable tenderness. She reached out and brushed away the tear on Daiya’s cheek with the callused pad of her thumb.

 

“Daughter, I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but there is a big difference between twelve and fifteen, and between fifteen and eighteen. And yes, I loved your father from the moment I saw him, but there is a part of me that wished we would have waited longer.”

 

“Then why did you bond to him?”

 

Daiya’s words were so soft Gohan barely heard them. He didn’t know what a bond was, but judging from the way Mama flinched, her face paling, it was a secret she hadn’t expected to share. Bonded . . . the word echoed in the chambers of his mind, striking a vague chord. Unconsciously, Mama’s fingers flew to her throat, to the collar of her battlesuit. Daiya’s lips curved in a triumphant smile, with the slightest edge of bitter satisfaction. It was rare to catch Mama off balance and his twin no doubt gloried in the fact.

 

“I am your apprentice, Mama. I know the histories as you do. You bonded to Papa. Just as Grandfather bonded to Gran.”

 

Mama leapt to her feet, towering over Daiya with something like fear written on her features. Terror gripped Gohan’s belly. What could have scared Mama?

 

Mama was strong. Mama was brave. Anything bad enough to scare her was enough for Gohan to take note. Surreptitiously, his hand crept up and gripped the hilt of _Zaa’rok_ , caressing it like a talisman.

 

“You are never to speak of this again, Rudaiya. Do you understand me? If you know anything of the bond, then _never_ tell another soul about it!”

 

Daiya’s chin tilted in furious, petulant defiance. Her blue eyes blazed like coals of sapphire.

 

“Why? You’re gonna try and keep me from mating with Turles! Why should I--”

 

Mama’s open palm darted out like a striking snake, catching Daiya across the face in a light backhanded slap. Gohan clenched his jaw to keep from crying out, staring bewildered at his mother. The blow did not fit any of the rules he knew: this was not a spar, not a chastisement, not a playful swat. Mama had just hit Daiya because she was angry.

 

The picture of his parents’ perfection, shining and complete upon the altar of childhood, cracked, a jagged scar darting across the mirror of his perception. Mama was no longer the epitome of good, her decisions just and her actions without flaw. The realization was a staggering one and Gohan found himself reeling under the thought. The same was obviously occurring to his twin, for she stared at Mama as if she had never seen the like of her before. Mama stared at her hand with a dumbstruck expression, as if wondering if it had acted of its own will. Daiya’s lip quivered and two tears slipped down her cheeks. The tears broke whatever trance Mama was in. She stepped forward, arms spread to comfort Daiya and Daiya took a matching step back. Gohan gnawed on his lower lip, unsure of what to do or say.

 

“Rudaiya, oh daughter, forgive me I--” she said in a broken whisper, tears making her black eyes shine like suns.

 

“No,” Daiya choked, the vulnerability fading behind a flash of anger, “Stay away from me! I hate you! Do you hear me? I _hate_ you!”

 

She tore away her arm from under Mama’s consoling hand and burst from the room, blowing past Gohan without even seeing him. The image of his mother’s face would be branded in his mind forever. Grief, horror, heartbreaking regret were etched deep in her beautiful features. Then she saw him. She held out one hand hesitantly.

 

“Gohan . . .” she whispered, almost in supplication. Gohan’s heart twisted. He wanted to tell her that his adoring love had not lessened; he wanted to wrap his arms around her. But he did neither of these things, remembering the stinging slap.

Instead, he ran, the roses falling broken to the floor.

<^>

All the pieces were now in place. The circle of power lay splintered, and all the brats away in the wilds with Bardock’s elder son leading them. Adrenaline hummed in his blood; he was preternaturally aware of the two of his father’s underlings that strode a pace behind him, to make sure he did what was necessary. His father doubted he would have the nerve. Truth be told, so did Zorn.  His mouth felt dry, his tongue an inert, sticky weight. Sweat dampened his brow and ran in slinking trickles down his face. One drop pearled on his nose. It tickled, but he ignored it.

 

Prince Trunks’ private study loomed in front of him and a quick scouter sweep found him alone inside. The door swished open and the prince sat watching a vid screen avidly, a toneless female voice informing him of countless minutiae. His lavender head snapped up and the expression of mild irritation faded into a warm smile when he saw Zorn. Flicking off the vid screen, he rose and strode toward them with the loose, swinging gait of his, jaunty and confident, with the medallion of Planet Vegeta’s prince shining around his neck. In the surreal state Zorn was in, he was struck by the image of Trunks’ sword sheathed across the back of his abandoned chair, the textured hilt rubbed smooth from long use.

 

“Zorn!” Prince Trunks said, “Come for a spar? I could use one after a morning reading reports on energy distribution across the Empire.”

 

Zorn’s fingers felt numb. He had her eyes. Entrancing blue eyes, so strange set in a Saiyan face.

Gods, could he do this? Panic slid through his veins and his fingers twitched around the silver disc in his hand. He felt the hot, drilling gaze of the two Elites behind him, their taut expectation, and saw the flash of wariness in Prince Trunks’ face.

 

That was enough.

 

With all the speed he could muster, Zorn thrust the disc at the vulnerable juncture just above his breastplate, feeling heat and current zap through the prongs and into Trunks’ body. Zorn hesitated at the last fraction of a second, and the last prong didn’t pierce the skin. Trunks didn’t cry out, or even move as over a thousand amps of electricity seared through him, along with a deadly cocktail of neurosuppressants and tranquilizers strong enough to kill ten powerful Elites.

He only crumpled, falling to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. The colossal force of his ki dwindled, falling into nothingness under the scouter’s chirping appraisal. A scream exploded across the mental plane and the same scouter fried as Zorn turned his focus toward the second class Trunks had mated with.

 

It was two seconds, maybe three, before she appeared, a solid wall of seething golden power, a gaping hole yawning in the ceiling above them. Her eyes flew to her mate lying with his legs folded under him, then those deadly emerald eyes lifted to Zorn and he almost smiled. He would die by her hand and then what would his father do?

 

“Because he is still alive, I will you kill you quickly, you pus-licking runtling,” she rasped. The two Elites raised the ki-killers they were armed with and she blew them away with a nonchalant blast, her eyes— _those eyes!_ —never leaving his.

 

“What is your plan, Zorn? Kill my mate, and me, then what? King Vegeta would not stop until he tore every last one of you apart with his bare hands. You know this.”

 

Dimly, vacantly, he realized the one flaw in his father’s plan: he had grossly underestimated Sansai, daughter of Aspar. The golden nimbus around her thickened and Zorn raised his ki by reflex. As if his power could hold a candle to hers. Now he did laugh, a grim sound that rang with bitterness and desperation, seeing what she did not. Slanted golden brows drew together in a furious scowl, a snarl rippling from her lips. 

 

“You laugh? I promise you, _traitor_ , that you will not leave here still breathing,” she swore in a velvety undertone. Despite the fear making his limbs tremble, he froze his face into a mask of sneering disdain and seething malice.

 

“You would be the expert in treachery, wouldn’t you, Sansai? And twisted obsessions as well. Tell me, did you enjoy being fucked by your cousin as much as you did with that frigid bastard, what’s his name? Zul? And, wonder of wonders, your daughter is now his apprentice. My father’s guest should be stumbling upon them soon.”

 

Sansai hissed out a cry of outrage and denial and lunged. His father struck her with a makeshift club, a chair leg. A smug smirk of satisfaction stretched across his face as the pale colors of Super Saiyan ebbed to their normal sable, her body folding gracefully over the inert form of her mate. The expression disappeared when he looked up at Zorn.

 

“Still alive, is he? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you didn’t want this venture to succeed,” he whispered silkily. Tarah had forsaken his king’s robes for armor, scale-like plates bristling over his entire body. Zorn fixed his eyes on the interlocking plates of a garish, bloody red, schooling his expression blank. 

 

A cadre of Elite soldiers filed into the room, forming a thorny circle around the two still figures on the floor. Tarah turned his attention from Zorn.

 

“Chai, the exits and comm links?” Tarah demanded of his second in command. The burly Elite, eyes appearing crossed under his beetled brow, smiled, revealing a jagged, jack o’ lantern’s grin of empty spaces and yellowed teeth.

 

“Locked up tighter than a drum and every line shut off. No transmissions going out or coming in. No one will leave the palace alive unless we say so.”

 

“Good,” Tarah said, “and our guest?”

 

“Within Planet Vegeta’s airspace as we speak.”

 

“Excellent. With any luck, he’ll kill _Prince_ Trunks’ blue-eyed abominations first. Come along, then. We have more work to do.”

 

The world detonated around them. Zorn was thrown twenty feet in the air along with the rest of them by a searing bubble of gold. If he hadn’t raised his ki at the last second, he would have been burned to a crisp like some of his father’s soldiers. Sansai stood at the center of the maelstrom, her face like the wrath of gods. Ki bolts as well as rays from blasters of every kind bounced off her ki shield. Tarah was the only one still standing, his hair and armor smoking and Zorn dredged up a grudging pride in his sire. Coward that he was, he still stood facing the golden warrior with defiant hate.

 

“Now you die, son of Fronn,” said Sansai with savage delight, flashing forward and thrusting her fist through the plate armor, through flesh and bone and out the other side. Twitching in the throes of death, Tarah pressed the small button wired into his armor, his fail-safe.

 

“Not before you and all of your spawn . . .” he croaked, then died with a smile on his face.

 

A high-pitched note shattered the air, and, with the click and clatter of tiny metallic legs, hundreds of tech spiders burst into the room.

 

They were everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling, covering every surface so completely that it seemed to be alive.

 

They did not touch Zorn, no, not with a tasty treat like Sansai blazing like a torch. The spiders converged upon her in a frenzy for the beautiful power cloaking her like a second skin.

In desperation, Zorn burst from the dying hull of the palace toward the safety of the launching pad, the air ringing with screams and reeking of smoke and blood.

<^>

Geta paused mid-punch, frozen in place by the massive force of ki bearing down on them. Goten stilled as well, and one by one, Daiya, and Gohan clustered around them, all staring dumbstruck at the winking star in the sky.

 

“Wha—what is that, Geta?” Goten asked, brown eyes troubled. The ship grew closer, and closer still and Geta violently wished that Raditz-jisan would return with Turles. They had left at first light to catch fish for breakfast.

 

“I don’t know, Goten. It’s strong whatever it is,” Geta answered. 

 

“It feels a bit like Zul-sensei. Could it be another Ice Clan?” Daiya offered, tensed for battle.

 

“If it is, they’ve come for trouble. Be ready for anything, all of you,” Geta ordered, as the ship landed a few hundred yards from their camp. Dust and heat billowed over them, the earth rumbled beneath their feet. Geta saw Raditz and Turles returning; the old warrior’s face was grim and pale. The brief surge of relief twisted into alarm. Geta felt a round, cold object harden in his stomach at the look of fear in his eyes.

 

The hatch opened, a gangplank thrusting in Planet Vegeta’s red, sandy soil. Haloed in white light, Geta saw a slender silhouette not unlike Zul, but much shorter. As the figure stepped into the sunlight, Geta’s apprehension thickened into true fear. He knew that face from the few blurry images Father had shown him in warning. Purple skin, red eyes, thick, lashing tail . . .

 

“Cooler,” he whispered. Frieza’s brother. Monstrously strong. Wickedly fast. And completely insane.

And it was Momma who had killed Frieza as Trunks-nissan had killed King Cold.

So this Ice Clan more than any creature in the Universe had a reason to want him dead.

 

All of them combined had no hope of beating him. This thought occurred to him in the same instant that Cooler’s eyes found him. Red and empty, frighteningly sharp, as if he could peer into Geta’s soul. With the barest twitch of effort, he traversed the distance between them, stopping just in front of Raditz-jisan who had made a stand directly in front of them. His solid bulk was comforting.

 

A smile split Cooler’s face, an ugly unkind smile, smug and unsettling.

 

“Greetings. From the terror-struck expressions on your faces, you know who I am, but for formality’s sake, I’ll introduce myself. I am Cooler, son of King Cold, prince and lord of the remnant of my race the Ice Clan in the stead of my brother Frieza. My power is second to none, and I could kill you without the slightest effort. And perhaps I will. But not today.”

 

Geta couldn’t find it within himself to feel relief or to feel anything at all. His voice had the entrancing, seductive quality of an orator’s and Geta instinctively mistrusted it.

 

“Then why are you here?” Geta demanded, eager to break the strange word-spell he wove. The red eyes found him again and Geta forcibly repressed a flinch at the raw madness in them, as if his skin was all that was containing him from exploding everywhere.

 

“Ah, you must be Vegeta’s son, Prince Vegeta the thirtieth, an impressive lineage indeed. Only the son of that rude, uncouth monkey would dare speak out of turn. You must learn some manners.” Cooler stepped forward, hand cocked to fly, when Raditz-jisan moved to block.

 

“If you didn’t come here to exact revenge for your father and brother, then why did you come? To beg for mercy, perhaps?” Raditz-jisan said with a surprisingly calm voice even though Geta could see the sweat slicking his skin and scent his fear. Cooler threw back his head and laughed, a harsh, pealing sound.

 

“No, but your wit has bought you your life, son of Bardock. I have come for the ultimate prize: my way to the world of Namek! Then, oh then, when I have gained immortality, all of Vegeta’s kind will learn to fear my name!”

 

Cooler rose in the air, his scouter beeping. He rotated in a slow swivel then, fixated on the north. Another bray of chilling laughter.

 

“My prize, the Namek called Nail! Farewell, mortals! I will return a god. I believe my associate would like to have a word.”

 

And he was gone, blasting into the sky until there was nothing left but the reddish after-image of where he had been.

 

“What did he mean his assoc--”

 

A round green orb of ki knocked Goten off his feet, cutting off his sentence. Geta snarled and turned toward the source of the blast. And felt fear sing through him as Raditz-jisan breathed his name.

 

“Broly.”

<^>

There was nothing inside him. No pain, no thought, no memory. He floated, suspended in blue-black nothingness, free from cumbersome emotions and fickle sensations. There was a part of himself that knew he should be in pain, he should be thinking, breathing, _living_.

 

A warm, raspy voice broke the stillness, saying one word over and over, weeping and crooning.

The word . . . it was his name!

He was Trunks!

 

That word, that claiming of identity, flooded him with thoughts and sensations and memories, both his and hers.

Her . . . _Sansai_ , partner-of-his-life-and-heart Sansai. He felt her pain, both physical wounds and exhaustion and mental turmoil and anguish, he felt her fear, both for herself and for their children.

The children!

Still unable to move, he threw out tendrils of thought, widening the scope of his ki sense towards—wait. He couldn’t reach them! It was as if there was a wall blocking him. Trunks narrowed his focus and found servants and Saiyans dying by the dozen as tech spiders drained them of tasty ki energy. A shudder tore through him. The _Sorva_!

 

Trunks struggled, beating against the torpor that stilled his limbs, reaching for the scorching wellspring of power within him. Pain jabbed at his limbs and he sensed a repulsive suckling, an oppressive presence slurping the power from him like a milkshake through a straw.

 

 _No! Get off!_ He screamed, bursting upward into consciousness, haloed in his power. He rose, surrounded by jagged mountains of mangled spider, but, like starfish, if not completely destroyed, they simply regenerated and attacked again.

Several things were impressed upon him at that moment: 1) He and Sansai wouldn’t get out of here alive, 2) The children were most likely either dead or soon to be, and 3) He would spend every ounce of power in his body to take the _Sorva_ down with him.

 

The _Sorva_ sucking greedily at Sansai’s aura evaporated into glittering dust at Trunks’ blast. Her emerald eyes shone with so many emotions and Trunks knew he would gladly die puzzling over their secrets.

 

“Let’s fight, Beloved,” he said.

<^>

They fought as one mind, one strength, the entire focus of their power on the snarling monster with no eyes, the man who had once been Saiyan, but was nothing more than a husk of a man filled with hatred and mad power.

And still it was not enough.

Even Raditz’s great strength was not enough. It was like trying to stop a rocket with nothing but a baseball mitt.

 

One careless backhanded punch sent Turles and Geta like missiles into the ground, pockmarking their campsite with craters. Goten blasted him with a volley of golden orbs, but they bounced off his face and dissipated in the air.

 

 _Gohan!_ Rudaiya thought, eyes raking the area for her brother. She saw him, standing frozen by the shelter, sword drawn, eyes watching the fight. But then Rudaiya had no time to ponder this.

With a maniacal cackle, the monster reached out and plucked Goten from the air, holding him by the neck in one huge hand.

 

 _“KAKKAROT!”_ he bellowed. Goten choked and struggled, legs kicking vainly at the air.

 

“Kakkarot?” he managed, looking into the brutish visage an inch from his own, “how do you know my dad? Who are you?”

 

Geta was there in an instant with a cry of rage, ready to defend his friend. The monster-man seized Geta by the scruff of the neck, ignoring Raditz’s furious assault on his back and head. A snarling smirk split his face.

 

“Vegeta! It’s your fault. It’s all your fault!”

 

He dropped Geta and, using Goten as club, drove him back into the crater beneath them. Rudaiya, Turles and Raditz continued their battery, to no avail. The monster Raditz called Broly would not release Goten.  Laughing, he batted them away.

Gods, his swats were like being hit by a train!

 

Pain exploded in her brain, she blacked out, and found herself sprawled across Turles’ chest moments later. Dirt speckled his face and hair, one lone blade of grass fluttering across the bridge of his nose. His scent and sweat and fear washed over her. Blood wept from the goose egg on her cheek, and Turles’ nose was bleeding. Tenderly, she wiped away the blood and he grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers, pressing the back of her hand to his mouth.

 

“Where are they?” she whispered urgently, looking into his trusted, beloved face. The handsome planes of his face, a younger, clearer echo of his father, tightened in anxiety.

 

“They would have come.” He told her gravely, with such compassion in his slanted black eyes. The words and the implicit implication struck her like a blow, harder than any Broly could have given her. Had they still been alive, they would have come. If her parents drew breath, they would have come to their rescue. Tears blurred Turles’ face and his arm wound around her shoulders in mute comfort.   

 

They were roused by a weak scream and the shudder of impact through the ground. 

 

They found Broly slamming Goten into the ground over and over again. She watched in horror as his body went slack in unconsciousness, his limbs folding and jutting at odd angles as his bones broke. Rudaiya screamed in denial and flew at him in a fury of punches and kicks, Turles at her flank. Roaring like an animal denied its prey, one fever-hot, callused hand encased in green-gold aura closed around her shoulder. The other held the blast that would have killed her, when he stopped.

All the deadly tension seeped away into shocked slackness.

 

“Sansai,” he whispered in soft-voiced wonder, one thick finger touching her cheek. Rudaiya shuddered away from the touch, unnerved by his lolling eye sockets, by the sickening tenderness in the syllables of her mother’s name.

 

“Let go of me, you son of a bitch!” she screamed, struggling vainly in the trap of his grip. Just at that moment, Raditz unleashed the full fury of his most deadly ki attack, aimed squarely between Broly’s naked shoulder blades. White light streamed harmlessly over his contours, seething and screeching, the sheer inertia of it detonating like a bomb in her head. But as the smoke cleared, the form that held her was unmoved.

 

Skin smoking, Broly turned and shot Raditz through the chest in one careless, offhand motion. A fine mist of blood diffused the air as the green orb hurtled through armor and flesh and bone. Rudaiya glimpsed the blackened outline of his rib cage as he fell to his knees.

 

Turles flew to his father’s side, speechless and stunned as if he had been the one shot. Raditz’s chest rose and fell one last time, whispering a handful of words to his son, his thick, callus-knotted paw caressing his face in tenderness.

As his hand fell to the ground, slack and lifeless, something shattered inside her, her heart reeling with grief. _This has to be a dream . . . a terrible dream . . ._

 

 _“Let me go!”_ she howled, struggled with renewed strength. She almost succeeded in breaking his hold.




The slanted green-gold brows drew together, the mouth twisted into a frown.

 

“NO! You’re mine, Sansai!” he roared, squeezing. Rudaiya felt the bones of her shoulder crack, shatter under the brutal pressure of his hands and she screamed. In pain. In indignation. In fear.

 

Geta staggered up, bleeding and broken. His left leg looked slack and dead, his right trembling under the burden of his weight. Blood wept from hundreds of cuts, his face swollen and battered. Goten was far worse, lying still and lifeless a few yards away.

 

“Leave . . . her . . . alone,” Geta rasped, blue eyes thunderous under his fierce brow. Rudaiya was able to wriggle from the greedy purchase of his hands, limping to one side. Her vision narrowed dangerously, blackness bubbling up to take her. The pain in her shoulder nearly crippled her and her tongue was painted with bile.  

 

A wild yell broke the air, and Rudaiya looked up to see Gohan blazing like a torch, sword held aloft. He brought the blade down with all his strength at the yielding juncture of neck and shoulder, as if to cleave Broly in half. The blade sank in, cut skin and muscle, but stopped with jarring force in bone. Blood spurted from the wound and Rudaiya felt a moment’s fierce pride.

 

Any emotion save fear emptied from her as the unstoppable beast cackled, a green orb of ki in his right hand, of the same power and size as the one that killed Raditz. Gohan saw it and dropped his sword, crossing his forearms over his chest. The force of the blast caught him in the belly, carrying him high into the sky.

 

 _“Gohan!”_ Rudaiya cried, then Broly dragged her up by her hair. She writhed, struggled, fought, even as blinding stabs of pain bolted through her injured shoulder, cursing him the whole time.

 

“You’re coming with me,” he proclaimed, slinging her over his shoulder caveman style. A red blast winged through the air with deadly accuracy. And, as with all the other attacks, bounced uselessly off the monster’s thick skin.

 

“Drop her,” said a silky, wonderfully familiar voice. Rudaiya’s heart slammed against her ribs, in hope and terrible fear.

 

“Zul-sensei!” she cried. Her master hovered a few inches over the ground, blazing with the full measure of his strength. His red eyes remained fixed on Broly and Rudaiya shivered. She was suddenly glad that she had not made an enemy of him. The promise of violence in his eyes frightened her.

 

“She’s mine,” Broly said, tightening his purchase on her. She whimpered as the broken places in her body protested. Zul-sensei lifted one alabaster arm; red ki pearled on his fingertips.

 

“I’ll ask you one more time, you stupid, fucking monkey. Put. The. Girl. Down.”

 

“You want her? Take her.” Broly said. And dropped her. The ground reached up and took her, pain blinded her.

The last thing she saw was Zul-sensei fighting for her life.            

<^>

The orb of deadly green energy dissipated over the desert and Gohan fell, only half conscious. He barely felt the impact and warm red sand embraced him. He lay still, monitoring his breathing.

In . . . out . . .  in . . . out . . .

 

The rhythm soothed the frantic pace of his thoughts, fighting back the terror and terrible, terrible rage that had paralyzed him. Fear had its own taste, cold, sharp, metallic. But this anger . . . this monstrous anger was like a living thing inside him, wakening, roaring at the cries of fear and pain of his loved ones. Of Geta and Goten. Of Raditz. Of Daiya.

_Daiya!_

 

Her anguish reverberated across the mental plane, tearing through their low-grade telepathic bond—their twin bond, he called it. Gohan leapt up, powering up to fly, his entire energy focused on his sister. Confused terror, blistering pain . . . struggle . . . _no!_

Too late.

 

He felt her ki shrink as the monster’s pod soared high, to some unknown point in the stars.

Hurt.

Taken.

 

The rage overtook him again, swelling from his belly up to his limbs, flowing like water through his muscles, baptizing him in power. He screamed, the force of his power whipping sand up. His power skyrocketed into blistering gold, and the heat of his aura melted the sand to glass, creating jagged, gnarled shapes like hands clawing the sky in supplication. Gohan burst into the sky, golden hair swept up and blue eyes changed to green.

Broly would hear his cry and tremble! The sleeping dragon had awakened! Hear him roar!

<^>


	5. Taken

His woman’s back, the smooth white skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, was an implacable wall to him. He studied each knob of her vertebrae, the spring of her ribs, the sleek, subtle definition of her musculature. Her blue hair, heavy and warm, was spread across the pillow and his arm. He rolled onto his side, glaring at her turned head.

 

“Woman, I know you’re not asleep. Will you tell me what I’ve done wrong and save us both time and effort?” he tried hard to keep the annoyance and sarcasm from his tone, but some still seeped through.

 

She had never refused sex before, not in over twenty years, and having her naked in bed beside him was a temptation, and a forbidden one by her cold shoulder and stony silence. This method perplexed him. When he made her angry, she shouted and hissed and spat, hurling imprecations. They fought as passionately as they made love. It had always been a secret point of pride for him that his woman did not sulk or wheedle or manipulate to achieve her ends like Kakkarot’s harpy. What she got was by the battering force of her personality, her logic and intelligence as well as his frightening impetus to tear down the stars and gift them to her.

 

His woman did not acknowledge that he had spoken, but his keen Saiyan hearing caught a soft intake of breath, quickly stifled, and her shoulders quivered a little. Stymied, Vegeta reached through the bond to discern what he had done to anger her. Instead he was overwhelmed by pain. Such _pain_!

It was not anger that turned her back to him, that stifled sobs, but a raging hurt, boiling within her like a turbulent sea. Shaken, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Bulma . . .” he whispered, but whether in a question or plea for absolution, he wasn’t sure. She turned, her blue eyes shining in the faint light, cheeks glistening with tears. The sight was a dagger to his heart. His hand cupped her cheek, smoothing away the tears with his thumb, erasing the memory of them.

 

“What  . . . ?” he began.

 

“I heard you,” she said at last, eyes smoldering with hateful accusation, “I heard you talking to one of the Elders. Why, Vegeta? _Why?_ ” the word tore through him, her sorrow seethed through the bond, a scar on the soul.

 

“Aren’t you happy with me?” Bulma continued, sitting up in bed. Too stunned by the absurdity of the question to answer, Vegeta remained silent. Gods, didn’t she know how he cherished her? Didn’t she know how the mere suggestion of what he considered was like cutting out his own heart?

 

She bit back the weeping sorrow with some effort, rising and pacing, clothed in only her hair.

 

“Have I _offended_ you in some way?” she spat, glaring down her nose at him. Vegeta leapt up and grabbed her arm. She jerked free of his grasp and slapped him across the face. The blow itself didn’t even sting, but the gesture behind it hurt. 

 

“Woman, would you let me explain?” he said with a calm he didn’t feel. His tone and manner disarmed her more than anything.

 

“Explain what, Vegeta?” she whispered hoarsely, “that you asked the Yardratian Elders if there was a way to reverse the Saiyan bond? Tell me, though, is there a Saiyan woman waiting for you on Planet Vegeta? Gods, Tarah will be very happy to hear--”

 

“ _Goddamnit Bulma, you know that’s not true_!” he thundered. He seized her by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled, half-insane with the thought of what lay ahead, the same terror that was tearing Bardock to pieces.

 

“I want only to protect you! When whatever it is hits, there is a very good chance that I will die . . . and I’ll take you with me. I can’t bear the thought of that, woman. Don’t you understand? You _must_ live! And if I have to tear my own soul to shreds for that to happen, then so be it.”                      

 

Realization dawned on her face like the birth of a star. All her anger and hurt and sorrow ebbed away like poison draining from a lanced abscess.

 

“Oh Vegeta  . . .” she whispered, kissing him gently. Her soft, silken arms wound around him, binding him tighter than any forged chain. He returned her embrace, shaken and more than a little bewildered at her quicksilver change in emotion. He buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair, noting with a small, ironical smile that they breathed in sync, even their heartbeat was in the same cadence. To break the bond would be to destroy the soul at the most integral level. Not even the Yardratians could manage it without insanity or death to one or both of them.

 

“I lived through your death once. If it hadn’t been for Trunks, I would have lay down and died with you. I couldn’t do it again. Not again. Bonded or not, if you die, I will find a way to follow you.”

 

He stepped back, smirking down at her.

 

“Then I suppose the only alternative is for you and me to live forever.”

 

She gifted him with a smile.

 

“Good plan.”

 

 

 

    

Vegeta snapped awake hours later. He stilled his rapid breathing, throwing his senses out into the night for what had disturbed him. His woman slumbered peacefully beside him, her beautiful features set in slack repose. He grazed lightly over the pathetic kis of the Yardratians, and found Kakkarot wakeful as well.

 

_Kakkarot, what was—_

_Vegeta! Come quick! It’s Father!_

Vegeta growled, disentangling himself from his woman’s sleeping embrace. Focusing on Bardock’s wildly fluctuating ki, he grumbled, “This better be good.”

 

The whirling millisecond of kaleidoscoping colors and the sensation of movement without conscious effort were still disorienting, but Vegeta found the skill incredibly useful and well, fun. The sight that greeted him was a chilling one. Bardock writhed on the floor beside his bed, encased in an aura of ki so hot that the Yardratian healers could not touch him. His howls reverberated against the domed walls of the Healer’s Sanctuary like a multitude tortured beyond bearing.

 

“What the hell happened? Didn’t you have him sedated or something?” Vegeta demanded.

 

“He was fine when I left him an hour ago!” Kakkarot yelled, “Then he just woke up! He broke every restraint they put on him. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

 

Amid the incoherent cries of pain and babbling in Saiyago, Vegeta caught: “Raditz . . . Raditz, my firstborn son . . . you did not deserve such a death!” Kakkarot’s face paled and Vegeta felt a cold slithering sensation crawl up his spine.

 

“Bra,” Vegeta whispered. The half-wit warrior nodded and phased out of sight. Vegeta reached through the shield of Bardock’s aura and tweaked a nerve in his neck. The tortured Seer fell into healing sleep with a grateful sob.

 

“Tend him,” Vegeta commanded the wide-eyed healers and phased back to their cave, yanking his woman up from bed.

 

“What the fuck, Vegeta?” she snapped.

 

“Put these on,” he grunted, throwing her clothes to her. Grumbling and cursing under her breath, she obeyed.

 

“This better be good,” she said in a low, threatening tone. Vegeta chuckled and wound an arm around her. Closing his eyes, he followed the warm beacon of his daughter’s ki. He found Kakkarot standing at the foot of her bed, grinning sheepishly.

 

“She looked so sweet. I didn’t want to wake her,” he whispered, scratching the back of his head.

 

Vegeta snorted, rolling his eyes. But still he hesitated as Kakkarot had, studying his youngest child. Gods, she looked so much like her mother. Her ki strength was as pathetically small, he thought wryly. Her tail was the only hint that she was half-Saiyan. His heart melted in his chest at the sight of her curled on her side, blue hair spilled like living silk over her pillow. Her pale, perfect face held the soft resonance of Bulma, her blue eyes flicking and twitching under the delicate shield of her eyelids in the throes of a dream.

 

“Psst! What’s going on?” Bulma whispered.

 

“Father woke up ranting about Raditz. He said that he was dead. I—well, me and Vegeta wanted to make sure that everything was okay at home. The only other person strong enough to see that far is Bra,” Kakkarot explained. Vegeta noted the crease between his woman’s brows, the firm set of her mouth as she digested what she’d been told. 

 

Vegeta padded to one side of the bed and laid a hand on his daughter’s slender shoulder.

 

“Bra,” he said softly, shaking her gently. Her blue eyes fluttered open and a dreamy smile touched her lips.

 

“Papa?” she rasped, voice thick with sleep. Aware of Kakkarot’s presence, Vegeta sat beside her. Bulma took the spot on her other side. Bra’s eyes, at first sleepily peaceful, sharpened with worry at their presence, an identical crease marring her young brow.

 

“Mom? Kakkarot? What’s going on?” she asked, her sweet, treble sharpening into a shriller register. Bulma combed her hair in a soothing gesture and some of tension seeped out of Bra.

 

“Hun, we need you to look toward home. Bardock Saw something and . . . and we’re not sure if he’s talking about _this_ now, _this_ time. Could you look?”

 

Vegeta repressed a grin. With her clear-cut logic melded with gentle soothing, Bulma could charm the grin off a Cheshire cat. Bra nodded, brightening at the prospect of helping. She closed her eyes and focused. Vegeta observed, feeling only the barest whispers of her power, a flexing and buckling of psychic energy, reach out, reach across the light-years of empty space to Planet Vegeta. She took in a sudden hiss of breath, one hand tightening on Vegeta’s knee. He frowned. What did she see?

 

“No no no no no!” she muttered in a broken chant. She dragged him into her vision, forcing the horror of it at him. Dimly, he heard Bulma and Kakkarot draw in a breath as they saw it too.

 

 _Trunks still as death with Sansai fighting for her life against the_ Sorva _over his body. . ._

_Cooler seizing Nail and escaping the horror left on Planet Vegeta . . ._

_Broly beating the hell out of the children, even the Ice Clan as he leapt to Rudaiya’s defense. . ._

_Raditz’s broken body . . ._

 

“Stop!” he howled, breaking the ugly succession of images.

 

Helplessness overtook him like a storm, and he, weak and raging at its breaking. He, the king of Saiyans! 

 

The power he had brushed in the G.R. washed over him and the small part of his mind that was still thinking phased away from Bra’s room, away from his woman and daughter to the salt plains of Yardrat.

 

“No! I won’t let this happen! I won’t!” he vowed to the cold, silent stars hanging in the night sky.  He flew high, embraced by clouds, raging at the gods, raging at his enemies, raging at the look of terror in his granddaughter’s eyes as that fucking coward Broly took her.

 

_Gone!_

 

His fury became strength, the fragile matter of his flesh a conduit of ki. Golden light buckled around him and pain screeched through his limbs. He blazed through Super Saiyan, Super Saiyan 2 . . . higher and higher. Still, it was only drops in the ocean he touched, the inner sanctum of his soul. In that moment, he saw himself what he truly was. Beautiful and terrible, jealous and powerful, unfettered in its rage or love or hate. 

 

He screamed a raw, undulating howl. Thought fell away. He felt the primal power of _oozaru_ in his unchanged limbs, and dimly felt the planet shudder and buckle hundreds of feet beneath him, the sky groaning at the hurricane of his power.  Suddenly, after an unendurable eon, the pain disappeared in sweet relief. Of course.

_Of course._

The power had always been his.

 

White-gold light exploded across the far reaches of the planet, like the birth of a sun.

 

Golden hair thrust out, lengthening in a tawny mane falling to his waist. Lighting slithered around him as fast as thought, blue and hot. Instead of violent joy in his accomplishment, instead of the grim satisfaction he thought he would feel there was a strange tranquility. His enemies were chaff, dust and ash. Surely not even the gods had such power.

 

“Super Saiyan 3,” he said to himself, and even his voice had altered, into a lower, craggier register, the hoarseness of the change still heavy upon him. There was no one in the galaxy that could touch him now.

 

Vegeta concentrated, sucking his scorching aura back into his body, and, in the blink of an eye, was back in Bra’s room.

 

“Vegeta?” Bulma and Kakkarot said at the same time, in identical tones of awe and tentative question.

 

“Wow, Papa! You look like an angel!” Bra enthused. He smirked at her, then sobered, meeting his woman’s gaze.

 

 _Vegeta!_ she breathed inside his head, _my God, you look . . . what happened to you? I didn’t know it was even possible to achieve another level._

 

 _Nor I,_ he replied, his convoluted emotions mingled with hers in the current of the bond and Vegeta was once again smote with his foolishness. He could not break the bond anymore than he could stop his heart from beating.

 

 _But I had to find something. I couldn’t very well have Trunks_ and _Kakkarot on the same plateau as the king of Saiyans._

 

Vegeta met Kakkarot’s eye in dark understanding. What Bardock and Bra Saw could mean disaster, and every second wasted was another that could cost Saiyan lives. In a flash, Kakkarot was gone, fetching his harpy of a mate and Bulma’s things from their cave, where the small pouch of Senzu beans was stored. His chest swelled with pride that they had grown at all in Planet Vegeta’s sandy soil, yet another testament to his woman’s ingenuity. 

 

_How many do we have left?_

 

Her eyes darkened, one hand tightening on Bra’s.

 

_Only one. The rest of my store is in my lab back home._

 

A pause, dread and fear slicing through the bond like Trunks’ sword.

 

_If there’s anything left of it._

 

Kakkarot returned, his woman silent for once, pale with worry. Her eyes flickered over Vegeta apprehensively and he managed a smirk.

 

“We have to move. The Seer will have to wait here. Woman, you and the brat go with Kakkarot to the wilds where the children are. I will go to the palace,” he said.

 

He didn’t give them time to argue, but reached across the emptiness of space to the light of his eldest son’s ki. Weak, flagging.

 

 _Hold on, brat. I’m coming,_ he thought.

<^>

The only sure way to kill them was with ki. The greedy bastards devoured their light-energy until they exploded into scorching, airborne shrapnel of molten metal. It made their battle all the more exhausting, not being able to recharge their ki with bouts of hand to hand. As it was, staying on his feet was a grim challenge, both at his tiredness and the mountains of killed _Sorva_ piled underfoot. Staying in his ascended state was even harder, for his enemies fed off his strength. He and Sansai fought back to back, hurling blast after blast until each was like parceling off pieces of their souls.

So tired . . .

 

Time no longer held any meaning. It could have been fifteen minutes or fifteen centuries, for each moment was the same as the last: the same despair, the same blinding pain and exhaustion, the same grim knowledge that he would die here. The pillar of warmth and strength behind him buckled and Trunks turned in time to find his wife overrun by stabbing legs and greedy, soul-sucking mouths. His heart skipped one beat, two, as she her power was drained from her, the golden aura disappearing. She had been fighting far longer than he, this desperate war for his life, for hers, for their world. Trunks’ sight blurred, a deadly lassitude stealing over his limbs. Their combined despair immobilized him and, in desperation, he surged through the bond, pushing his strength and soul into her.

 

_Live, Beloved! Fight!_

_. . . I . . . I have nothing left to give . . . my heart fails . . . love you . . ._

_No!_

_NO!_

His whole soul screamed denial and he discovered a hidden well of power.  His hand shot out and white light incinerated those atop her. Trunks leapt forward, covering her with his body and the chittering, screeching mass overwhelmed him in its tide. One of them latched onto the back of his neck and he knew this was the end. But the tech creature didn’t drain him. It moved away. _All_ of them leapt off, as if drawn by some unheard command. Then he felt it. A ki so immense he couldn’t begin to plumb its depths. And it was familiar.

 

“Father?” he whispered, half in hopeful disbelief, half in childish awe.

 

He looked up at the hole Sansai had blown in the ceiling and saw him. Hair a tawny mane down his back, glittering with power, he raised one hand, flicking two fingers in a cocky salute. His emerald eyes met Trunks’ and he smirked. The awe lessened with the smirk. That was his father, the same man who he argued with over battle tactics, the same man who beat his face in when they sparred, the same man who he loved with his whole heart.

 

“Legendary . . . Vegar above, he’s ascended again,” Sansai rasped. _We will live,_ Trunks thought as he and Sansai staggered to their feet. _We will live and not die._ Hope brought strength to his aching limbs and he shared what he had with his mate until her limbs stopped shaking as if she had a violent fever. 

_We will live._

<^>

Kakkarot was torn between hatred and sorrow, tears and an explosion of rage. With a flick of hand, he shooed the flies that buzzed and crawled inquisitively over his brother’s corpse, closing his glazed, staring eyes with two fingers. Locking away the grief with great effort, he forsook the dead for the living, flashing across the crater-ridden, scorched ground to where his son lay. _Soon, my brother. I will give you the hero’s funeral you deserve._  

 

A fresh surge of rage boiled up, obscuring his vision briefly in its red haze. Goten had taken the worst of it, with Geta and Turles tied for a close second. All three were unconscious at the moment, but still alive. Barely.

 

“Oh Goten! My sweet baby!” Chi-Chi cried, her sorrow and anger reflecting his through the bond. She knelt, delicately drawing their son’s dark head onto her lap, stroking his blood-matted hair. Kakkarot was assaulted by a vision of a warrior, dark-haired and strong, like Goten, but with paler skin and shorter hair, a warrior with one arm and a scar across his face. _Gohan_.

Chi-Chi had seen one son dead. He’d be damned to Hell if this one suffered the same fate.

 

Half-mad with fear, he snatched the lone Senzu from Bulma’s hand and broke it in half: shoving the larger portion into Chi-Chi’s hand while he administered the other portion to Turles who lay in a crater a few yards away, a handful of stained white fabric clenched in his fist. The elder boy swallowed without incident, and remained in a deep, healing slumber. Together, he and Chi-Chi clustered around their son. Chi-Chi’s fingers shook as she pushed the healing bean between Goten’s slack lips. 

 

“Eat. Eat it, son. Come on, Goten. Eat it for me,” he whispered, pleading with any god who would listen to spare his son. Chi-Chi massaged his throat to work the bean into his belly and Kakkarot’s limbs quivered to a jelly-like consistency in relief as the bean’s magical properties took effect. His eyes opened, a small, happy smile touching his lips.

 

“Poppa? Mama?” he rasped. Awareness flashed in his eyes and he straightened suddenly, his head almost colliding with Kakkarot’s.

 

“The bad man! Where is he?”

 

“He’s gone, baby, don’t worry,” Chi-Chi whispered tenderly, “he . . . he took Daiya with him. And Geta . . .” she trailed off and Goten cried out and rushed from his mother’s embrace when he spotted Geta, lying with his limbs twisted at unnatural angles in a ring of scorched grass and crumbling earth. A distinctive foot-shaped indentation could be made out on Geta’s broken chest.

The fucking bastard had stepped on him, as if he was an insect.

 

“Geta! What are we gonna do for him, Poppa?” Goten wept, great, round tears streaming down his dirt-smudged face.

 

“I can help. The Elders taught me a little. I’m still in training, but I can try,” Bra volunteered, laying her palms flat on Geta’s ruined chest, alighting as gently as a butterfly. Cocooned in concentration, soft white light encircled the two of them as Bra reached her healing strength into his shattered body: mending flesh and bone and nerve. Bulma hovered, wringing her hands as her son and daughter hung in that misty place between life and death. They all waited, watching in baited breath as the light flickered, and Bra shuddered; sweat popping on her brow and cords straining in her arms and throat. Geta, by contrast, looked peaceful and terribly young in the strong light, his bones snapping back into place. Both snapped to awareness with a ragged indrawn breath, as if surfacing from underwater.

 

“Bra!” Geta cried, catching her as she fell into a faint. Kakkarot rushed forward, skimming over her ki.

 

“She’s okay, just a faint. Healing Geta took a lot out of her,” he said. Bulma, sobbing in relief, gathered her newly healed son and her slumbering daughter into her arms.

 

“Thank Kami . . . thank Kami! I thought I lost you!” she wept, lavishing him with kisses. Even Geta, in his consuming pride, could not brush off her love, but clung to it after the horror of what he had experience.

 

“Geta, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Goten said. The two boys shared a long look, and Kakkarot once more felt the small thump of gratitude for their closeness. A friend who was closer than a brother, two who knew each other better than anyone else, it was a rare thing and to call a man friend in Saiyan culture was a high mark of trust and honor.

 

“Goku.” The strange tone in Chi-Chi’s voice instantly snagged his attention and he strode to the thicket where she stood pointing, “Look.”

 

He followed her gaze and let out a whooshing breath.

 

“Gods,” he muttered, in curse or prayer, he wasn’t sure.

 

The Ice Clan . . . Zul. His long, alabaster body lay sprawled in a serpentine ‘s’ on the ground, purple blood pooling around him. To be certain, Kakkarot reached out with his consciousness, seeking the sharp, icicle clarity of his mind.

Nothing.

Grief and regret clogged Kakkarot’s throat. How often had he mistrusted him, simply because he was Ice Clan? And now . . . and now he was dead. He had died trying to save Rudaiya.

 

 _This will break her heart,_ he thought, thinking both of Sansai and Daiya.   

 

A golden aura seared across Kakkarot’s consciousness and automatically, he shoved Chi-Chi and Bulma behind him, ready to face whatever came at them. The figure that landed before him, his battlesuit hanging off him, had the look of a true warrior. He had the look of his father with the empty sword sheath across his back. Kakkarot thought of the one-armed warrior in Chi-Chi’s memories, the warrior who had spanned the gap between hope and despair for an entire planet. His namesake did him great honor.

 

“Gohan,” Kakkarot said with a small smile, “looks like there’s another Super around here!”

 

The impossibly young golden-haired warrior seemed to look straight through him. His aura scorching the grass, he staggered dazedly toward Bulma, sinking slowly to his knees.

 

“She’s gone, Gran. Daiya’s gone . . .” he whispered, breaking down into sobs, “I tried . . . I flew so hard . . . but I was too late . . . he took her . . . she’s alone and hurting.”  He rocked back and forth, looking less like a mighty warrior and more like a boy whose sister had just been kidnapped. For the thousandth time, Kakkarot wished death upon Broly. _Gods help you when Trunks and Sansai find out,_ he thought with dark relish. While he would have liked to kill the bastard himself, it was their right as Daiya’s parents. In a brief flash of light and ripple of movement, Vegeta appeared with Trunks and Sansai in tow, the latter two in normal forms, bloodied and battered. Sansai looked like she could sleep where she stood.

 

“You two look like hell,” Kakkarot observed, deploying a capsule from his belt and tossing them bottles of Bulma’s fortified soda complete with vitamins, minerals, and enough sugar to give a shark cavities. He cast a glance over his shoulder, reluctant to share the terrible news.

 

Trunks caught them and unscrewed the lid for his mate before handing it to her.

 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Trunks snapped, blue eyes nearly black with exhaustion and ire.

 

“Gohan!” Sansai cried mid-swig, dropping the soda into the grass as she spied her son, weeping and glowing in a Super Saiyan aura.

 

“Mama! Papa!” Gohan barreled into his parents’ embrace.

 

Giving them privacy, Kakkarot turned him attention to Vegeta, still in that new form of Super Saiyan—level _three!_ —feeling quells of religious awe. Vegeta smirked, chin tilted in smug pride. His gaze roved quickly over the scene: noting that his woman and three children were safe, Raditz and Turles in identical positions of stillness.

 

“Turles is fine, only sleeping,” Kakkarot reported. With a nod of his leonine head, the angled planes of Vegeta’s face tightened, his normally forbidding expression made more so by the heavy brow and piercing green eyes.

 

“This form drains a great deal of energy. I don’t know how practical it will be in battle.” He closed his eyes and, with a singing sigh and whispering caress of white light, he descended to his normal form.

 

“It was Tarah who orchestrated this little coup. Zorn shoved this into Trunks’ chest. Had it not been for Sansai, we would have had no one to save.”

 

Kakkarot clenched his jaw, digesting this information carefully; catching the nondescript silver disc Vegeta had retrieved and studying it. While he hadn’t Bulma’s skill with machines, the design was sleek, and Planet Vegeta’s seal etched along the edge proudly proclaimed its Saiyan craftsmanship. 

 

“Did he escape?” Kakkarot asked sharply. One of Vegeta’s black brows winged upward.

 

“Zorn escaped. Sansai killed Tarah. The coward released the _Sorva_ as a last resort.”

 

 _“Sorva?!”_ Kakkarot exclaimed. Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, glancing briefly at his woman. Efficient and industrious woman that she was, she deployed capsules of food and shelter, gathering the children under its shade.

 

“Keep your voice down, third class. They’ve been through enough. Yes, _Sorva_. Sansai fought them herself for over three hours, then seven hours more with Trunks. We scoured the palace, or what’s left of it, killing every last one of them. And . . .” he trailed off, his gaze finding Turles again.

 

“We found the boy’s mother among the ruins. She fought honorably, like a woman of her heritage, a warrior Elite, killing twice as many as her comrades judging by the hulls.”

 

The words were a low blow after a barrage of low blows. Now, when Turles woke, Kakkarot had to tell him that not only had the girl he loved been kidnapped by a deranged monster, but he was an orphan. Kakkarot rubbed his brow.

 

“Rudaiya’s tutor fell too. He died defending her.” Kakkarot whispered. Surprise flashed across Vegeta’s face.

 

“Is that so? Then he died with honor.”

 

“Gods. What a mess. We need to--”

 

“What?” Sansai’s voice shattered the air. That one word thick with despair and disbelief.

 

“Sansai will kill him with her bare hands,” Vegeta observed and Kakkarot saw a glimmer of unutterable compassion in his gaze.

<^>

Her power bloomed and flowered around her in opaque gold, higher than she had ever dreamed of achieving before. But at what price? She thought. She would gladly surrender this power if only so she could hold her daughter in her arms again. Grief was like a mad beast inside of her chest, ripping, tearing at her. Only twice before had she brushed the madness that had consumed her uncle and cousin. Once, when she saw the monster her uncle had become and feared that she would become him, and again, when the moon was upon her and she believed her mate had forsaken her. Now it was a bitterer draught, a cancer inside her soul, the ghosts of what might be hounding her.

 

A voice reached for her through the swirling maelstrom of terror and madness, sickened horror and grief.

 

“Sansai! Power down! Mom’s less than fifty yards away! Power down!” her mate shouted his warm hands on her shoulders. Her grief gave her strength, the wild terror-filled power of a mother protecting her young.

 

“No!” she shouted, tearing herself free from his grasp. Her eyes lifted to sky where her daughter had disappeared.

 

 _“RUDAIYA!”_ her howl tapered off into sobs and she fell to her knees, clinging to Trunks. Tears fell from her eyes, only to exaporate into steam and salt on her cheeks amid the heat and light of her power. The bond was her salvation, the gentle persuasion of his love and solace, just barely covering the mirroring wild grief she felt.

 

 _We will find her, Sansai. I swear it to you. I will tear the Universe apart with my bare hands if I have to. But we_ will _find her._

 

_Oh Trunks. Don’t you understand? Rudaiya looks just like me. What do you think he will do with her?_

 

She felt the sick horror ripple through him, his beautiful blue eyes like the turbulent surface of the sea during a storm. Blood drained from his face, his scar cast in sharp relief.

 

_Then, we’ll have to find him fast._

 

 

 

 

The summer palace was a tranquil place, untouched by the ravages of the past few hours. But Sansai refused to let her soul be soothed by it. The palace her forefathers built with their sweat and blood was in ruins, centuries of history burned to ash. Hundreds of people she knew and respected lay dead, including Caulipa and Turnik, Seripa and Solan among others. Innocent children were beaten within inches of their lives, and Zul . . . Zul, her friend, who had defended her daughter until his last breath! Sansai fisted her hand over her heart, trying to contain the pain.

_Oh Rudaiya . . . my sweet little girl . . ._

 

Trunks emerged from the bathing room, toweling his lavender hair dry with a cloth, another hitched around his hips, held by his tail. Trickles of water meandered down his chest and his spicy, masculine scent washed over her, warm and clean. He paused in the door, shifting in the awkward silence. Sansai looked at him blankly; the soft walls of exhaustion and sorrow didn’t muffle the force of his personality, nor blunt the plain look of pleading in his eyes.  She tried to swallow the hard, cold object stifling her throat, but she couldn’t.  The words wouldn’t come. He saw her affliction and forgave her for it, his blue eyes warm with unbearable gentleness. Sansai’s own felt hot and gritty. She wouldn’t let herself weep. If she started, she feared wouldn’t be able to stop.

 

She turned to the window, bracing her arm on the sill. His footfalls were barely audible on the lush carpet. One warm hand crept under the veil of her hair, closing around the base of her neck, his thumb brushing her bonding mark. A shiver ran through her, of deep, hungry desire, in spite or perhaps because of the hellish day she’d had. His moist breath stirred her hair and she smothered a growl at the feel of one wandering fingertip brushing the base of her tail.    

 

“We should get some rest,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. That softly spoken phrase and the question behind it broke her resolve. She found herself hungering for the comfort he was offering, shoving away bland apathy for heat and desire. She whirled around and pulled him toward her. His lips met hers with that sweet, languid persuasion she knew as his. She broke the seal of his mouth and tore off the towel, grinning savagely at his stark arousal.

 

“Trunks,” she whispered. He leaned in to kiss her and she nipped his lower lip. She didn’t need to be seduced.

 

“Trunks . . . please . . .” she panted, “I don’t need human gentleness from you. Take me . . . please . . .”

 

The growl torn from his throat was thrillingly masculine, delightfully savage. He turned her, hard swordsman’s hands bending her over the foot of the bed. He tore off her clothes with shaking, feral urgency and thrust into her. She let out a breath at his swift penetration, rising up on her hands and knees. He didn’t give her time to adjust to his scorching heat, his bruising hardness, setting a brutal pace, hammering in and out of her, their flesh coming together with the dull thud of a blow. She squirmed and his hands found her hips, squeezing, holding her still.

 

Gods, she had wanted this from him, hot, feral sex to erase their terrible loss, to burn away any thought but for him if only for one night. It was a reminder that after a day of loss and despair and struggle, pleasure and love still existed. The musk of his scent, the rasp of his breathing, the furry, muscular quickness of his tail twining with hers surrounded her, saturated her in Trunks. Her first release took her by surprise, a cry lodged in her throat as pleasure crashed over her, blurring the edges of her vision. He didn’t even pause his fevered pace, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair and pattering on her back. His breathing was harsh and came in gulping pants and Sansai’s limbs trembled at the delicious, invading force of him. She tried to clasp him, absorb his violent force, but his penis seemed to swell and thicken inside her to bruising proportions and she reveled in it.

 

“Yes . . . oh Trunks, yes!” she cried, arching back, spreading her legs wide to accept him. Heat throbbed through her, pouring off her sweat-slicked skin in time with the frantic beating of her heart. Red sparks danced behind her eyes, her whole body tensed and focused on him, on the delicious sensations rippling through her. Sansai fisted her warrior’s hands in the fine cotton coverlet, her anchor in this swirling vortex of bare skin and towering pleasure. Her mate, her beloved, he despised hurting her, and though their lovemaking was passionate, he never took her with such dominating force, as he did now. It wasn’t in him to be so selfish.

 

She reached a blistering peak as he bit the tip of her tail, and she clamped her jaws down in a mouthful of coverlet to stifle the rhythmic cries as he soldiered on, the broad head of his manhood rasping swollen inner tissues. She felt it begin deep within him, the rumble in his throat, the shuddering and clenching of the muscles of his abdomen, the small, erratic thrusts of his hips as he spilled his seed inside her. Sansai relished the warm rush of his satisfied desire mingling with her own juices.

 

They lay there, linked in body and soul for two dozen heartbeats. Sansai let out a soft, pleading breath, forming his name as she felt him harden within her. Could she take much more of this? Or would she simply dissolve into him?

 

“Sansai,” he whispered, the first coherent word he’d spoken since they began. One knuckle pressed along the groove of her spine and she let out a shuddering breath. The nerves of her spine were sensitive and her back arched in quivering, ticklish pleasure. He fell over her back, bracing his arms alongside hers. She shivered at the muscular wall of him curved over her, his hair spilling over her, mingling with hers. Electric shocks of pleasure burst behind her eyes at the unceasing rub of his belly against her trapped tail as he moved, hard.

 

“Mine, Sansai. You’re mine,” he rasped in her ear, his rich voice hoarsened with arousal, nearly unrecognizable. Sansai’s breaths grew shorter; her arms trembled under their combined weight as she strove toward another peak. Abruptly, he ceased all movement and waited, a throbbing spear poised an inch from the goal. He bit down on the cord of her neck and it sent jagged edges of burning sensation through her.

 

“Say it,” he commanded, the damp, slithering warmth of his tongue gliding over her bonding mark.

 

‘Trunks . . .” she whispered, pleading. He bit her again. Harder. She growled in pain, twisting to meet his gaze. His eyes blazed with ravaging grief, soul-shaking love and unsated lust.

 

“Say it!” he growled.

 

“I’m yours,” she said. He sank his teeth into her bonding mark, reopening it, renewing his claim on her mind and soul. He exploded into movement and brought them to a screaming peak simultaneously, and melted together through the bond, dissolving into each other. They collapsed into a boneless heap on the bed and she knew no more.

 

Her exhaustion must have dragged her into sleep for a short while, for she woke to Trunks’ lips kissing the back of her neck, his hands smoothing over body and his penis hard and ready inside her. A soft moan slid from her lips. Trunks continued his gentle rousing, his mouth alternating between kisses and crooning endearments. An unneeded apology for his savagery, she supposed. His hands slid over her, cupping her breasts and teasing the tender buds of her nipples. She purred, arching in languorous invitation. He ignored it, questing fingers dancing in slow circles down her belly to . . .

A wordless cry tore from her lips as his callused fingertip rasped the sensitive nub between her thighs, spears of pleasure stabbing her.

 

“Kami . . .” he whispered shakily and did it again. And again in a gentle rhythm. Overloaded by the pleasure of it and his hardness within her, she came in a wild, bucking climax, sobbing his name. He groaned, rubbing her hard as she rode out the last spasms and came himself, holding himself rigidly still as he emptied himself in her. He removed himself from her and tucked her against him.

 

Only then, in the warm, languid stillness of the night, did she let the tears come. And Trunks comforted her, his own tears lost in her hair.

<^>


	6. Awoken

**Unknown Planet-Sector 13**

 

Sensation came to her in disorienting snatches. Dizzying inertia, Zul-sensei’s silky threats, Turles’ howls of rage . . .

 

Then stillness.

 

Pain throbbing louder than her heartbeat from her wounded shoulder.

 

The black canopy of space pierced by living light.

 

 _You need to wake up,_ she told herself, forcing her tired consciousness from its torpor. Pain invaded her being and, coupled with exhaustion, tried to drag her back down into the mire. She clenched her teeth and strove up, biting back whimpers of pain as she broke the surface into wakefulness. Though the effort was titanic, all she achieved was the lift of one impossibly heavy eyelid. She was lying on her side, curled up like a shrimp. The ground beneath her was rough, cold and uneven. A cool whisper of wind along her skin and the distant sleepy song of wildlife told her she was out of doors and it was night. Stertorous breathing broke an otherwise idyllic stillness.

 

The weary eyelid slid back shut and she rested for several heartbeats. A low, snuffling grunt sounded behind her and she tensed. Then she summoned the will to turn her head. By increments, she took in the expanse of pallid purple sky set with unfamiliar constellations. Scrubby brush bristled along the shoulders of a stony ridge. They were in a valley of some sort and many, many light-years away from home. A small sound stuck in her throat of raw terror. Then her eyes fell on the source of the harsh breathing. Her captor.

 

In the murky half-light, she saw his face. In the shapes of his bones she saw the echo of her mother. A chill invaded her, dark seeking threads of doubt winding around her heart. Sprawled on his belly, half his face buried in dirt, all of the deadly tension and blunt, blustering power was gone. Set slack in repose, Rudaiya studied the side presented her and saw her mother in the way his black hair fanned down his shoulders and across his brow, in the tilt of cheekbone and shape of mouth.

 

 _Who_ are _you?_ she thought. Her weary eyes grasped control, overwhelming her overtaxed will and slipping closed. She studied the inside of her eyelids for an answer, sifting through her studies as _kahntor_ for some long-lost relative. A brother? No, Mama’s parents had died in the Formation. Cousin? Much more likely. Rudaiya concentrated, tracing her lineage with a chronicler’s precision. Sansai, the daughter of Aspar and Negi . . . Negi’s sister Gaia dead with no children . . . Aspar, brother of Paragus. She alighted upon the name with a gasp of horror. The son of Paragus by his mate Cele: Broly.

 _Cousin. You are my mother’s cousin. And you love her,_ she silently told the inert monster laying a few feet from her. She was still a child in many ways, but she knew the twisted tenderness in his voice, the greedy possessiveness in his clasp, the hot stink of a man roused.

 

“Gods help me,” she rasped.

<^>

“It’s _gone_. It’s fucking gone! Goddamn Tarah to Hell!” Bulma spat, sitting amid the wreckage of her lab. Ceiling panels caved in, revealing entrails of cords and sparking wires, all her machinery in pulverized pieces, the walls scorched by ki it was only one scene of hundreds in the palace. The security of this room was air-tight. Zorn had probably filched the entry codes . . . gods; they were all still reeling over the particular betrayal, Trunks more than anyone. Zorn had been his friend, a man he had fought alongside and trusted. And he had proved to be no more trustworthy than his father.

 

A small subterranean rumble broke the sparking stillness as a faraway corridor collapsed. The structural integrity of this section was still iffy, and Vegeta had been reluctant to her let go. Sansai had volunteered to accompany her. Bulma cast a glance at her through her lashes. Eyes rimmed with red and vacant, her daughter-in-law now wore the face of a stranger as she sifted through the piles of scrap for anything salvageable.

 

Bulma’s own heart lay in pieces at the thought of Rudaiya in the hands of that monster . . .

 

Tension sang from Sansai’s erect posture. She was still exhausted and shaky from the battle, and Bulma knew for a fact that she hadn’t slept the night before. She understood the need of it, to drown pain and guilt with hungers of the flesh. There were no words to assuage her fears, no words to soothe or placate, so Bulma opted for silence.

 

She leapt nimbly over a destroyed machine and crept to the false tile in the floor. Beneath it laid the hard drives of her computers, as well as a dozen microcapsules holding all her work from the past thirteen years. It was not the only such site scattered throughout the palace, for caution had always been her constant companion, but it held the lion’s share. She keyed in the code and was relieved to find her treasures unscathed. A fierce smile touched her lips.

 

“Hah! We’ll get the last laugh,” she muttered. Like a brooding wraith, Sansai was suddenly at her side, face blank.

 

“You have found what you need? We have to leave soon. Every second we waste is one more where he--” her voice broke and she swallowed whatever terrible sentence she had been about to utter. She mastered the passion simmering inside her with a warrior’s discipline, swollen lids covering reddened eyes. Sansai’s knuckles stood out white with strain at her sides.  Bulma swallowed hard, her own grief knotting her stomach. Another, much closer rumble announced another collapse. Bulma felt a pang of regret at the palace of such beauty and history, the pride of the Saiyans, in ruins.

 

“Yeah, let’s go. I’m sure Trunks has the ship ready by now.”

<^>

“What do you mean that we don’t know where we’re going?” Trunks asked softly, striving for calm. His anger and pain swirled beneath his breastbone with all the energy of lightning trapped in a bottle, urging him to fling the words he knew would draw blood, to fling his fists at something until he felt it crumple and die beneath his force. The frayed edges of Sansai’s thoughts did little to still him. In fact, the wild grief and whispers of madness revolving like a carousel in her mind threatened to destroy the only vestiges of his equilibrium that remained. There was understanding in his mother’s eyes, and impatience too. This wry, familiar concoction lessened the tension somewhat.

 

“What I mean is that Daiya’s transmitter was damaged in the fight. Goten’s too. See? I can’t pinpoint their exact location with this,” she gestured to the watch about her wrist. Several of the blips were bright and pinging strongly, representing Geta, Gohan and Turles, who stood watching the argument play out. Another was smaller, revealing that Bra were still on Planet Vegeta. Goten and Daiya’s weren’t one point, but registered as several on the small screen.

 

“Father? Can you not locate them with Instant Transmission?” Geta asked, scowling from beneath his fringe of bang. Wearing an identical expression, Father grunted from his place in the captain’s chair, legs stretched before him and hands fisted on the arms of the chair, knuckles white with strain. The battle with the _Sorva_ and the new transformation he had attained had taxed him more than he cared to admit, the dark rings under his eyes telling a different story than his rigid posture and drilling gaze. He eyed his lastborn son with a gimlet stare, a dark cloud of scowling impotence.

 

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that, brat? I can’t _find_ them. He may be a coward, a traitor, a kidnapper and an incestuous son of a bitch, but he has eluded us for almost fifteen years. There is psychic energy at work here that I can’t penetrate.”     

 

“I wish Bra was here. She could do it,” Gohan said. The words drifted in the air and Geta hung his head. Gohan was right, and Trunks knew that his little brother felt guilty. Bra was in a regen tank on Planet Vegeta, regaining the energy she had lost healing him.  And Trunks was struck suddenly with remorse for Rudaiya’s Ice Clan sensei. He had died in the defense of her and had earned Trunks’ undying respect and gratitude. The Ice Clan commander had loved his daughter.

 

“Yes, she could. But she doesn’t regret what she did for you, hun,” Mom said, eyes meeting Geta’s in warm understanding. He nodded bravely and Trunks felt a surge of pride in his little brother.

 

“Your mother will foil him, Vegeta. After all, she defeated Frieza,” Father stated, his eyes losing some of their deadly shine when he looked at Mom. While Trunks had no doubt that Mom would find some way to track down Broly, the mention of the Ice Clan made him wince.

 

“That brings up another problem, Father,” Trunks said. His father’s black eyes seared into his. The corners of his mouth drew down.

 

“Yes. You are right. There is Cooler to consider,” he muttered, tail flicking meditatively.

 

“Do you think Nail will tell him where Namek is, Grandfather?” Gohan asked. Father snorted.

 

“He doesn’t have a choice in the matter, brat. No matter what sort of training he’s had nothing short of a miracle could keep Cooler from forcing the information from his mind.”

 

“I’m not so sure, Sire. After all, I withstood their attentions. With the right motivation, he might stand firm. But you are right. His torturers are . . . talented,” Sansai added quietly. Any vestige of color drained from Gohan’s face. Blistering love filled Trunks’ heart for his son. So kind and strong, so much like his sensei Gohan that it sometimes hurt to look at him. And he, this gentle boy, was the youngest Super Saiyan in the Universe.

 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. Sansai’s rigid posture relaxed slightly, tenderness flooding her bloodshot black eyes.

 

“It’s all right, son.”

 

“Nail is no Saiyan and no warrior,” Father commended gruffly. The corner of Sansai’s mouth twitched in a sad travesty of a smile. Trunks bit back the impulse to comfort her. That was for the two of them, in the privacy of their chamber.

 

“The Namekians are a peaceful race. Cooler will slaughter them just as Frieza did in my time,” Mom said darkly, a narrow crease forking her brow.

 

“I don’t give a damn about the Namekians! It’s the thought of Cooler and the dragonballs that keeps me from sleep.” he grunted, “He’ll wish for immortality.” The threat of his words hung in the air. An immortal Ice Clan bent on revenge was a deadly recipe.

 

“We should go, Father. Trunks-nissan and Sansai are more than enough a match for Broly. But we need to stop Cooler now.” Geta pounded his fist to emphasize his words, the gleam of savage delight entering his eyes. Father scowled, turning the idea over and over in his head, studying its angles. Lightly, he reached out a tendril of thought to him.

 

_What do you think, brat? Can you handle him alone?_

 

Trunks snorted mentally, brushing aside his concern.

 

_Before, when I heard that she had been kidnapped, I thought I could do it. I thought I could just subdue him, imprison him, shirk away from killing one of Sansai’s family. But now . . . if there is one hair on her head out of place, I will rip off his balls and shove them down his throat. I don’t give a fuck how powerful he is. He stole my daughter from me. No one will steal this kill from Sansai or myself._

 

Vegeta smirked.

 

_Good hunting, son._

 

Eyes drifting to Sansai, he finished: _Daughter._

 

Sansai’s eyes shimmered and she swallowed hard. Gohan saw this and embraced her.

 

“I know, Mama. I’m worried about her too.”

 

Sansai wrapped her arms around their son, bending over his lavender head. With a soft sigh like a sob, two tears leaked from her eyes, pattering like diamonds in his hair. Moved, Trunks laid his hand on her shoulder and his, pouring all his love through the contact. He looked up and caught the look of naked hunger in Turles’ eyes and refrained from phrasing it. The wound of his parents’ deaths was still too raw, and any comfort would be acid, not balm. Father and Mom shared a long look, obviously speaking through the bond. Father leapt to his feet, tail lashing in discomfort at this display of emotion.

 

“Let’s go, Vegeta. Cooler and Namek are ours to take. Turles, come with us.”

 

The burly boy shook his leonine head.

 

“No, Sire,” he said, calmly, but implacably. Father’s dark face sharpened. He wasn’t used to being refused.

 

“What?” he snapped. Turles did not flinch. Eyes glittering, he straightened to his full height, even with Father at thirteen.

 

“I won’t go with you, Sire. Rudaiya needs me. When we are of age, I will take her as my moonbride.”

 

Father’s face showed no surprise, and Trunks silently commended the boy for standing his ground, even though he wouldn’t get within half a light-year of Rudaiya when her fifteenth birthday came. The prospect of seeing her wed so young rattled him.

 

“Very well. But don’t make a habit of defying me, brat, or you won’t live to see your next moon,” he growled, one corner of his mouth lifting in a reluctant smirk. He beckoned Geta and in a flash of white, they were gone.

<^>

A loud percussion tore her from a deep sleep. Daiya rolled to her feet, fists coming up in defense, the motion fluid and drilled into her by vicious repetition by Zul-sensei. Pain smote her like a blow from her injured shoulder and she blacked out for an instant. When her head stopped spinning, she found Broly squatting a few feet from her, a wide, stupid grin on his face. Between them lay the warm carcass of some kind of deer, its fur bright blue and its antlers curling like a ram’s. It stank of blood and urine and fear and Daiya promptly fell to her knees and retched, each erratic heave of her chest sending bolts of pain through her shoulder. Gods, she was as weak as a kitten. Injured and dehydrated as she was, she could barely stay in her semi-upright position.

Of all things, he _giggled_.

 

“You don’t like my present, Sansai?” his voice was soft and vague, a child-like disconnected treble incongruous in a man so large. The weak red sun was high in the sky and she wondered how many days and nights had passed since the battle on Planet Vegeta. Her weak stomach turned to jelly at the thought of her loved ones. Tears welled in her eyes and she bit into her lip to stay them. If she started to cry, she would never stop.

 

Fever hot, callused hands seized her wrists in a bruising grip and she yelped. Though fear dominated her like a possessing spirit, there was enough of her Grandfather in her to revile this weakness. Where was her Saiyan pride? His hands gentled, one huge finger curling around her chin and lifting her gaze. His face, startling in its resemblance to her mother, held a similar expression of tenderness and Daiya felt a vicious pang of longing and grief. She had said that she hated her in a moment of childish spite. Would she even come for her? _Oh Mama, I didn’t mean it! I love you so much!_   Daiya fought for composure, thinking of what Zul-sensei would say if he saw her simpering like a cub. There was a fugitive gleam of madness in his face too, bottomless and terrifying.

 

“Don’t cry, Sansai. I can’t bear your tears,” he crooned, stroking her head roughly. Any other thought was banished as his dry, rough lips brushed her cheeks, the slithering tip of his tongue darting out to lap up her tears. She cried out and tried to hit him, but his embrace was consuming, smothering her in heavy muscle and clammy skin. Something hard prodded her thigh and she screamed when she saw what it was. He chuckled and released her.

 

“Later then, my love. Come. Let’s eat.”

 

The protrusion in his pants lingered, even as he nonchalantly tore the deer’s haunch and ripped a bloody bite from it, hair and all. Her stomach quavered again, threatening to revolt again. Terror hovered like a cloud over her head, of the unpredictable moods of this man, her own blood relative. When she remained where she was, Broly’s black brows drew together and she felt a malevolent, palpable gathering of irrational anger.

 

“Eat!” he bellowed, bloody spittle flying from his mouth. A tiny spark of defiance burned within her, smoldering, and she glared at him from beneath her forked brow. Daiya drew the small skinning knife from her boot and cut the saddle of meat from the carcass of the deer. Slick and sinuously brown, the muscle seemed to pulse with latent life. She glanced around for any sort of utensil or even any habitation. There was none. So, cradling the meat in her hands, she raised her ki slowly, cooking the meat with the heat of her ki. Hunger hit her in a solid punch as the cooking meat wafted up to her nostrils, warm grease pooling in her palms. She attacked the meat with the same alacrity as Broly until it was nothing more than neatly picked bones and a slick pile of organs.

 

Restored slightly from the food, Daiya surreptitiously studied her captor. The wound made from Gohan’s sword was gone and he was garbed in loose pants of voluminous fabric, his boots and armlets gold set with green gemstones. Save for the mess he’d made from eating, he was clean. Whoever lived on this planet obviously though highly of him.With a jolt she realized his tail was gone and wondered how he had lost it, curling her own tighter around her waist.

 

“Uh, Broly?” Daiya asked tentatively. Broly, who was leaning against a rock picking his teeth with a sliver of bone, hands, chest and face gleaming with blood and grease, looked up at her quizzically. He leapt to his feet, eyes glittering.

 

“What is it, Sansai?”

 

Daiya forced a smile. She would act the part she needed to stay alive.

 

“I seem to have hurt my shoulder. I’d be grateful if you helped,” she said, spitting the words out, fluttering a furtive glance at him from beneath her lashes as she’d seen Mama do to Papa. Again that dim, slackdaw grin. He nodded vigorously.

 

“Why didn’t you say so, my love? Of course!” with a blur of movement he scooped her up and exploded into the sky, haloed in a reddish aura.

 

“When I crashed here, the people took care of me. They’re a class of psychics and have succeeded in keeping themselves hidden from the Empire. They think I’m a god or the son of a god or something like that.” he giggled.

 

“They’ll help you if I tell them to,” his hand engulfed hers in a hard, sweaty clasp. His eyes gleamed strangely and Daiya bit back the urge to claw his face.

 

“I’ll make them worship you, Sansai,” he said softly, “as I do.”

 

 

 

 

It was no wonder that the inhabitants of this planet thought Broly was a god. Topping out at a grand total of two feet, including several upright inches of orange hair, the squat, amphibian-like creatures had bulbous growths behind their heads, giving them a hunched, frail appearance.

 

Their structures looked a bit like rock wasp hives and they were led amid a croaking, chittering crowd to what looked to be Broly’s hive. It was a massive construction, large enough for him to walk in without stooping even in his ascended state. The interior boasted a pool and the steam wafting from the surface told her it was a hot spring. Facets of blue-green light rippled along the ceiling from the reflections of the pool. Piled furs served as the bed and trays of native fruits and vegetables were arranged in neat rings on trays of carved stone.

 

Since this had been his home for the past fifteen years, Broly clicked and croaked out their rattling language and promptly, a healer laid its clammy cool hand lightly on her shoulder. Daiya was surprised to feel warmth emanate from his webbed hand, creeping into her skin like the soaking warmth of sunshine. She hummed in pleasure, relishing the feeling.

 

Then the temperature slowly climbed. It grew uncomfortable, but extremes in temperature did little against a Saiyan. At least, that was what Daiya thought. Then, abruptly, the heat skyrocketed, like the blistering supernova of Papa’s Super Saiyan aura, reaching into the broken places, breathing life into dull pockets of pain. With a cry, she shoved against the invading consciousness, but its will was iron, brushing aside her defense like so much rubbish. Then she knew no more.

 

 

 

 

When she woke, she found herself atop the furs that were Broly’s bed. She rolled her shoulder experimentally, remembering the pain of the healing. Daiya allowed a small, secret smile. Healed, rested and fed, she felt her strength return, burgeoning within her like kindling flame. The hive was dark, with only the eerie glow of the pool spangling ribbons of light. Daiya cast out her senses and found Broly absent. The temptation of the pool was too much to resist. She leapt from the bed and stripped out of her tattered battlesuit.

 

Gingerly, she descended the worn stone steps into the pool, inhaling sharply at the penetrating heat. She stepped into the middle of the pool, the water reaching her neck. Sighing as the hot, pungent, slightly oily water embraced her, she lay languid, submerging herself in the soothing waters. Unseen currents pulsed along her skin and, slick and indolent, she felt as if she was once more cradled in the womb. Daiya washed with the slimy soap that smelled dense and herbal, but not unpleasant.

 

“Sansai . . .” growled Broly, his voice deep and masculine with arousal. Daiya cursed herself for not noticing him. _Just try it, buddy. You’ll not find a simpering cub now!_ She thought quickly. If she tried to fight him, she would lose, and he would rape her. If she didn’t fight him, he would rape her. And there was no way in hell she’d give in to his disgusting attentions! What could she do?

 

“Broly,” she said, facing him. The sight of him stark naked with his manhood jutting out disgusted and frightened her, as did the lust and madness in his eyes.

 

“I am not Sansai,” she said, spacing out her words as if she was talking to a child. He chuckled, stepping into the pool.

 

“All right, I’ll play your game. If you’re not Sansai, then who are you?”

 

“Look at me.” she commanded, gesturing to her hair, her eyes, “I am _not_ Sansai. What Saiyan has hair like mine? What Saiyan has blue eyes? I am three-quarters Saiyan, one-quarter human. I am Rudaiya. I am the daughter of Sansai.”

 

His face hardened, eyes narrowing to deadly slits as he weighed her words against whatever deluded fantasy lurked in the dark corners of his mind.

 

“Enough! I’m tired of waiting! You’re _mine_!” he howled, lunging for her. She feinted, trying to evade him, but he was too big, and forced her back onto the bed with a wave of hot water.

 

“No!” Daiya screamed, reaching for her power. It blazed up, harkening to her call, overtaking her in white heat. She pressed her hands to his chest and blasted with all her strength. White light coalesced between them and she had time to feel satisfaction at the dumb look of surprise on his face before he was hurled through the roof and into the sky. She knew the risk of angering him, but truth and reason weren’t working. She would rather die drenched in blood then meekly receive his abuses.

Nothing happened.

Daiya watched her blast dissipate in the lower troposphere and the small figure of Broly hung in the air for a moment, then fell. He didn’t fly, didn’t try at all to slow his trajectory. She knew by a furtive graze of her mind that he was conscious. She shuddered at the brief contact, disturbed by chaotic bend of his thoughts, the frantic, disturbed rhythm of his emotions. Daiya watched in transfixed puzzlement as Broly crashed through the hole of his roof and into the floor with the force of a falling meteor _on purpose._ The fall did little to faze him, for he was crawling out moments later.

 

“Stay back! I’ll blast you again, I swear!” she commanded with all the force she could muster, an orb of ki in her palm. In the light of her ki, she saw the shine of blood trickling from tiny cuts on his face. And he was sobbing, face twisted into a macabre grimace, looking like a tortured demon in the half-light. Not in pain, she had seen him take more than that with a smile on his face, not physical pain, at least. Breaths tore from him in great, heaving pants. He hunched over, prowling just at the edge of her ki shield, rocking and sobbing like an injured child.

 

“Why don’t you love me?” he wept, “Why doesn’t _anyone_ love me?” he leapt forward, and Daiya hurled the orb of ki. It caught him between the eyes with a puff of smoke. It left a mark, she noticed, a dense, dark bruise. Unchecked, he crawled up her body and laid his head on her chest, tears and blood dripping onto her clean, olive skin like warm rain. One drop dribbled down the spring of her rib cage, dislodged by the fevered pounding of her heartbeat.

 

Another attack tingled under her fingertips, but she stopped herself. His grip was tight and she grunted in discomfort as he clung to her in the throes of his weeping. She patted his head awkwardly, fear, anger and pity washing over her in alternating waves. Deciding that he wasn’t going to rape her, Daiya stroked the black spikes of his hair in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that never failed to put her to sleep when Mama did it. Tension slowly seeped from his body, and his sobs quieted to the occasional hiccup.

 

“I love you,” he whispered, “I’ve loved you my whole life. Do you remember when we were young and Father left us alone in the dwelling for a night?”

 

“I remember,” Daiya whispered, fascinated both by the quiet happiness in his voice and the glimpse into her mother’s past. He laughed, his chest vibrating with his mirth.

 

“We ate everything in that pantry and destroyed Father’s chamber fighting over the last sweetmeat. I couldn’t sit down for a week.”

 

Daiya hummed noncommittally, continuing her unhurried stroking. Whatever magic there was in that touch, it was working. His breathing grew slower; his eyelids drooped, long lashes tickling her bare skin. Soon he was asleep. Daiya was left in the silence to contemplate the man her mother had once loved as a brother, the monster he had become, and the man that still lurked behind the madness.

 

She couldn’t sleep and tried not to move, lest she wake him. Trapped in dreams, he thrashed and clung, several of her ribs and arm snapped under his vicious force. She bit back a cry of pain and prayed with all her might that her loved ones would find her soon.

<^>

“Daiya!” Gohan cried. Mama and Papa looked up, a terrible hungry hope in their eyes. Not knowing whether to smile or cry, the youngest Super Saiyan smirked.

 

“I found her! She’s there!” he pointed to one of dots on Gran’s transmitter thingy.

 

“How do you know, Gohan?” Turles asked, the same terror and hope and love tangling in his wide face. Gohan decided he would be happy if Turles became his brother when he and Daiya were old enough. He shrugged, watching in fascination as Gran set the course and the ship sped up.

 

“She’s my twin. We are bonded too.” A pall fell over the joy of his discovery. Anger stoked hot in his belly, the same terrible anger that led to his transformation.

 

“We’d better hurry, Gran,” he told her huskily, “the bad man just broke her arm.”

<^>

 


	7. Mercy!

He woke again in the night, his humid breaths wafting in her face. The stars were bright, as was the sliver of moon, washing them in greenish light. His eyes gleamed like a wild thing’s, pools of midnight, flashing with cunning. His hand came up and cupped her cheek, thumbing away a tear that slipped from her eye.

 

“You’re not Sansai. You’re just a cub,” he said and Daiya flinched. He was lucid! She had heard of the mad having occasional bouts of sanity, relapses into a normal thought pattern, but in truth she had thought Broly beyond redemption.

 

“Who are you?” he asked, raising himself up onto his elbows.

 

“I am Rudaiya. Sansai is my mother,” Daiya whispered, tensed and wary. His eyes widened, his face going slack with shock.

 

“You . . . she mated? Who is your father? Gods, why would she mate with a _tujet_?” he demanded, face snarled in disgust. Daiya flinched at the derogatory term for a person not of Saiyan blood. Fury blazed through her veins for her father’s sake.

 

“My father is Trunks, Prince of the Saiyans, the Legendary and son of King Vegeta by his mate Bulma of Earth! He’s more powerful than you could ever dream of being!”

The disgust remained, along with that burnishing gleam of madness. Daiya swiftly bit her tongue. No matter Broly’s delicate mental condition, she would not tolerate slurs on her family’s honor.

 

“A half breed then. Humph.” For the first time since waking he took in their nakedness, the state of his room, the manner in which she favored her side and arm. Horror flooded his face.

 

“Did I . . .” he stuttered.  Daiya shook her head, too stunned to speak. He raked a hand through his hair, looking confused and frightened. Daiya wondered what it would be like, to wake up one day and find hollow spaces in her memory, in which she had done unspeakable things without knowing she was doing them. Understanding breeds empathy, Gran said, and she was right.

 

“What do you remember?” Daiya asked. The pain in her arm was tolerable, hot and uncomfortable, a stitch in her chest paining her from her broken ribs. Gingerly touching the mark on his forehead, Broly shook himself.

 

“The last thing I remember is . . . it’s all so confusing. The gaps in my memory are getting larger. The last thing I remember clearly is fighting with Keyuka and Kakkarot. He was the Legendary, like me.”

The first name was unfamiliar to her, and she flinched at the mention of Goten’s father. Had the man who carried her uncle on his shoulders when he was young, the man who laughed and made jokes and offered sweetmeats after spars, had that man faced Broly? _And he let him go?_  There was history here, a long, complex, adult one that Rudaiya didn’t fully understand.

 

“What should I do? Surely your mother is looking for you--” Broly rose and swathed a loincloth around his waist. Daiya watched him warily, crouched where she was, favoring her side.

 

“Yes,” Rudaiya said with a defiance she didn’t feel, “she and Papa are looking for me. So will Geta and . . . Turles . . .” tears welled in her eyes at the thought of him, of the fevered, terrified glance they shared when Broly grabbed her. She remembered the brutish size of Broly’s fist as it slammed into him, heard the sickening crack of his bones, the wide-eyed, slack look of pain, his black hair bristling around him.

 

“If they’re still alive . . .” she quavered and at last, let the tears swallow her.  Broly’s hands closed on her shoulders desperately and he ignored the small sound she made at the jar of her arm.

 

“What do you mean?” he demanded, eyes blazing, “did I . . . Sansai . . .”

 

“You didn’t kill my mom. Not even you are strong enough to do that. But my uncle, my friends . . . if you killed them, I swear to the Kais that I’ll tear you apart,” she hissed, glaring up at him with all the impotent venom of a kitten batting at a tiger. He smirked, so like Mama that her heart squeezed. She stiffened as he leaned in, but relaxed as his mouth touched her forehead gently.

 

“Little warrior. If you didn’t have her face, I would know you were Sansai’s daughter by the fire of your spirit.” In that instant, she could have loved him.

 

A harsh, guttural yell rent the air, and she looked up to see her mother haloed in violent, seething gold light, death written in her emerald eyes.

 

“You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!” she howled. With that, she unleashed an incredible ki attack, pure white light detonating with deadly precision at Broly’s heart. In the small part of her mind that was thinking rationally, Daiya realized that her mother’s rage had clouded her judgment and timing. For had she been thinking, Sansai would have noticed the compromised integrity of Broly’s hive. She would, also, have noticed the loose chunk of stone before it fell and struck Daiya on the crown of her head. Pain exploded in her brain and darkness took her.

 

She woke blearily to the sound of weeping. A familiar scent enveloped her nostrils; familiar arms cradled her, even as she was bathed in golden aura. She opened her eyes to find Turles hunched over her, stroking her hair, haloed in the pale colors of Super Saiyan. How . . . ? Through the fine mist of pain, Daiya couldn’t grasp how Turles could be here, and as a Super Saiyan, no less! He hadn’t sensed her wakefulness and continued his tender soliloquy. 

           

“I promise you, I’ll kill him for what he’s done to you, if your parents haven’t already finished the job. I can’t lose you, Daiya. I can’t. Not when I’ve lost my Toussan and Kassan,” he choked through his tears, fingers trailing over her head, arm and ribs with feather lightness.

 

“Not . . . not his fault . . .” she wheezed, trying to move. Turles’ beloved face twisted in rage and terrible love.

 

“Daiya!” he cried, raining kisses on her face and neck. Pulling back, he looked upon her with tenderness and disgust.

 

“What has he done to you? Brainwashing you into his . . . his _slave_!”

 

Daiya growled.

 

“I am no slave, Blondie,” she slurred. He chuckled and after some fumbling, something small and soft bumped her lips.

 

“Eat, my warrior. A Senzu,” he crooned, kissing her brow tenderly. His slanted emerald eyes burned with such livid grief and violent love that her heart quavered at the sight of it. She chewed and swallowed the bitter bean and sighed as it took effect. Her senses clear of pain, she felt Gohan, Mama and Papa overhead, battling Broly in his ascended state. The rumbles and echoes of their power dented the planet, light and battle cries rending the air.

 

Gently, searchingly, Daiya felt the graze of Turles’ mind, a tentative brush of offered comfort in spite of roiling disgust and the bone-deep desire for revenge. She loved him for it and kissed his mouth, the desperation of the situation leeching the shyness and desire from the gesture. They slid together, sharing memories and worries. She felt his hesitation and the battering force of his anger when he saw what Broly had attempted to do to her. She saw in him the news of his parents’ deaths, the tense flight from Planet Vegeta, and ultimately, his ascension at the sight of her naked, bleeding and unconscious in Broly’s embrace.

 

The fusion of their minds was so intoxicating that she sank deeper, abandoning self in her desire to know him. In his mind she saw herself, the first moment he saw her, sparring with Gohan, her laughter pealing like chiming bells in the air. Blue eyes like stars, hair like silk . . . she enamored him, even though he taunted and challenged her. He loved her even at five years of age. Her heart sang with delight and she fell deeper, the delicate warp and weft of his thoughts accepting her, twining inextricably with hers. She was overwhelmed in him: in the swirling emotions that writhed beneath the stoic reserve he wore like his armor, in the rhythms of his heart and mind, the bond of friendship and love that bound them. The golden heat of his power washed over her.

  

 _Turles . . ._ she crooned, chaining him to her with his name. She felt the joyous swell of his emotions, a singing thrill of possession. 

_Rudaiya . . ._ he answered and their lips met in a real kiss, a kiss of love and promise more binding than any ceremony. They were wed in all but body. Daiya returned to herself reluctantly, sprawled naked in Turles’ lap, cocooned in the heat and light of his aura. Something silly and childish in her envied the power he possessed, wanting it for herself. Turles’ smiles were miracles, she decided, and this one shone like a gem surrounded by darkness, battle and fear.

 

“You will have it too, my mate. I know you will,” he spoke with absolute conviction, his fingers doing something delightful against the back of her neck. She purred, twining her tail with his.

 

_Bonded at twelve . . . everyone will think we’re mad._

 

He snorted, trepidation creeping into his thoughts. His eyes lifted to the slashing figures cutting across the sky, the silver of Papa’s sword glinting in the light of their aura.

 

_Your father’s going to kill me. Followed closely by every other male relative you have. Hell, your mother will probably finish me off._

_Speaking of killing  . . . that’s my cue,_ Rudaiya said as she watched Mama throw Broly down into the shattered shell of a mountain, her hand poised for the killing blow. Daiya burst into the air and flew as fast as she could for the battle.

 

“Daiya, no!” Turles bellowed, bursting after her.

<^>

Breath hiccupped past her lips from the exertion of the fight and the sobs racking her chest. Her power blazed high and hot, a golden wellspring reflected in the snapping, snarling heat of Trunks’. The brutish monster’s body lay sprawled beneath her boot heel, the body that had once housed her cousin. Her hand formed the blast to kill him, but something in her hesitated. Gods, his face when she struck him! A look of betrayal and love, sorrow and pain.

What did he know of pain, she thought, what did he know of the love of a mother to a daughter when he was the one that had parted them?

 

“How could you?” Sansai whispered, her arm trembling, “How could you take her from me? How?! _How could you rape my daughter?_ ”

 

“I—I didn’t,” he rasped, his massive chest heaving beneath her boots.

 

“Liar!” howled Trunks, plunging his sword through the thick muscle of Broly’s arm and into the stone, pinning him. Broly screamed and would have struck at Trunks, but Gohan’s sword pinned his other arm, his face echoing Trunks’ in its rage. What had happened to the sweet child who brought her flowers? This destruction of innocence in both her children was Broly’s doing.   Her mate’s green eyes met hers, full of conflicted emotions, rage and sorrow for Rudaiya’s sake chief among them.

 

 _I know you loved him, Beloved, but that Broly is gone. I cannot suffer him to live, for the children’s sake, for mine, for yours._ I _will finish it if you don’t._

“Sansai . . .” said the monster who had once been her cousin, “you have to believe me, I didn’t hurt the girl.”

 

Gohan thrust his sword a little deeper and Broly growled, crimson blood bubbling out.

 

“Her name is Rudaiya, you son of a bitch,” he hissed.

 

“Rudaiya,” he repeated carefully, his empty eye sockets lolling, “I swear on the love you once held for me, Cousin, that I did not rape her.”

 

Sansai swallowed hard, a tiny seed of doubt worming its way into her heart.

 

“That’s it! I won’t listen to your sniveling lies!” Trunks snarled, a golden blast forming in his palm, “Goodbye.”

 

“Papa, no!” Rudaiya screamed, phasing in front of them, a blanket crudely fashioned into a dress. Half a second later, Turles appeared, his eyes fixed on Daiya. Sansai noted with approval that the boy hovered protectively beside Daiya, as if she would disappear if he moved greater than arm’s length away. Grief overtook the anger and it was all Sansai could do to keep from flinging her arms around her daughter and weeping until there were no more tears left. Trunks was similarly conflicted, the blast disappearing.

 

“Is he telling the truth, Daiya? Did he--” Gohan began, then blushed. The only one in their small group not blazing with golden power, Daiya nodded, her blue eyes moving from face to face pleadingly.

 

“Broly is mad, but he didn’t rape me. Like this he’s harmless,” she said. Sansai at first feared for her sanity, but that doubt disappeared at the burning, lucid fervor in her blue eyes.

 

“It’s true. I looked into her mind,” Turles affirmed. Trunks powered down and Sansai, Gohan and Turles followed suit, the latter two with some difficulty. Sansai couldn’t resist cupping her daughter’s cheek, peering into her face with anxious love.

 

“You are all right, _kou’ish tor’ktsu?”_ she choked. The deadly tension eased for the moment, Rudaiya flung herself into Sansai’s arms. The two of them clung in a fierce embrace for several minutes, sobbing and sharing whispered words.

 

“I am, Mama! I love you! I’m so sorry about the other day! I didn’t mean it!” she breathed. Sansai rained kisses on her precious face.  


“It’s all right, daughter. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

<^>

 

As they shared a tearful reunion, Trunks turned to Broly.      

 

“If my daughter is unharmed, in both body and spirit, then I suppose I can let you live.” He retracted his sword, the livid anger that had propelled him through waiting and danger and grief abruptly leaving him. All that remained was debilitating exhaustion and the bitter taste in his mouth, of unsatisfied revenge. His son followed suit, flicking the blood from the blade and returning it to the sheath across his back. Trunks despaired at the tension in his posture, his face frozen in an expression of indifferent coolness. He knew intimately the rage and confusion and sorrow that lay hidden beneath that tranquil visage. _Gods, please don’t let that fate find my son!_ Trunks pleaded.

 

Broly moved to rise, but Trunks viciously kicked him in the face, knocking him unconscious. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sansai’s black eyes widen as his body shrank to normal proportions and the elegant column of her throat flex as she swallowed hard at the revelation of his familiar face. Trunks ground his teeth together. Damn Broly! Damn him for taking Daiya, damn him for being to Sansai what Gohan had been to him! 

 

“We’ll decide what to do with him later,” he muttered. Trunks turned to his daughter, ruthlessly assessing her in both body and mind, seeking the slightest wound. Turles’ Senzu had taken care of any physical injury, and . . . wait. Trunks focused, grazing gently over her consciousness. Strong, hot, vibrant, the same blazing beauty that she had always possessed was still there, but . . . he probed deeper and encountered the scent and savor of another. Rage and surprised began to swell up and choke him, then his eyes latched upon Daiya’s tanned throat. No mark. It was that thought alone that kept him from exploding. His mate, thankfully, was too ecstatic at the thought of both of their children within arm’s reach, safe under her eye, that she didn’t notice the tenor of his emotions.

 

“Watch him for me, son. If he moves, kick him again. Harder.” Trunks said with a smile, gripping Gohan’s slender shoulder. The blue eyes, a perfect reflection of his own, danced with a familiar gleam of joy and some of the worry inside Trunks eased. Gohan was strong. Inside he was the same bright boy that he’d always been.

 

“I will, Papa,” Gohan promised. He glanced down at the watch Mom had left on his wrist, “We’d better wrap this up. Gran should be back with the others soon.”

 

Trunks nodded and strode across the few yards of rubble that separated them and whispered in Turles’ ear, “Come with me.”

 

They walked a few yards away, out of earshot. Trunks strove for calm, even as his control, frayed by the constant grinding pressure of the past few days, threatened to give way.

 

“Turles . . . when you said that you looked into Rudaiya’s mind, did you . . .” words escaped him. He thought of the bond that tied him to Sansai, that tied his parents, that tied Goku to Chi-Chi. What he felt within his daughter and Turles was the same . . . yet altered somewhat. The boy’s slanted black eyes, round with fear, shone in the weak light, his entire burly body quivering with it.

 

“Sire, I swear to you, I didn’t mean to . . .”

 

“Didn’t mean to what?” Trunks cut in, the gravity of the situation preventing him from being amused by the normally stoic Turles’ effusive apologizing. His sharp, young face stilled into a sheepish scowl.

 

“Bond with her,” he finished softly, “it was an accident, I swear it!”

 

Trunks folded his arms over his chest, a father’s indignance filling his chest. Confusion sat ill with him, so he covered it with anger.

 

“What do you mean it was an accident? How do you _accidentally_ bond with someone? With my daughter? Why now, Turles? Could you not wait until she was of age? Now the choice is beyond her, you have forced your little infatuation upon her and she will pay for it for the rest of her life!”

 

The contrite posture abruptly stiffened, a kernel of real anger sparking in his eyes. Turles balled his fists and Trunks considered beating him within an inch of his life.

 

“It is no infatuation! I love her, Sire! I love your daughter, Prince Trunks, and she loves me!”

 

“I do, Papa,” she whispered, slipping her hand into Turles’. Trunks caught how all the tension emptied from his posture, the soft look he gave her. Sansai came to stand beside him, wearing an identical scowl. Through the bond their emotions tangled: worry, anger, concern, and the tiniest, hidden speck of pride. Her hand slid into his and Trunks resisted the comparison between himself and Turles. He had been five years older than the boy when he had met Sansai!

 

“Explain to me how this happened,” Sansai commanded. Again, that look of shared intimacy, as if they had been mated for years. Trunks’ teeth ground together.

 

“I’m not really sure, Mama. When I wanted to stop you and Papa from killing Broly, Turles thought I was brainwashed or something. He brushed my mind to be sure and . . .”

 

“We shared emotions,” he continued.

 

“And thought and memories. We didn’t think--”

 

“—anything would happen, but then it seemed like--”

 

“—our minds were being woven together--”

 

“--It wasn’t until it was too late that we realized what was happening--”

 

“Stop!” Trunks said, “It’s too confusing when you speak in tandem like that.”

 

Daiya and Turles giggled and Trunks realized that they hadn’t known they were doing it. Inside himself he found a strange stab of envy.  If only he had been born in this time, then he and Sansai could have grown up together, and loved as his daughter loved. To have that assurance, that devotion was rare, and Trunks knew it would be a crime to try and sever the bond between them.

 

Sansai chimed in: _Not to mention impossible. What they have done is beyond my ken, my love. Bonding without bonding. The Elders on Yardrat might be able to help or on Planet Vegeta . . ._

 

Trunks was drawn into the memory of the last time Sansai had seen their daughter and shied away from the pain in it. They had been arguing about this precise thing, and Daiya realized this in the same instant Trunks did.

 

“Mama, Papa,” she whispered, leaving Turles to stand before them, her blue eyes pleading.

 

“I love you with all the strength in my heart. But I love Turles too. It is done. We are bonded in every sense.”

 

“Almost every sense,” Trunks growled, leveling his darkest glare at Turles.

 

“And it will remain so until you turn eighteen,” Sansai decreed. Trunks watched her face darken, her brow furrowing and he was struck once more by her resemblance to her mother.

 

“You would separate us?” she whispered, shaking with fury.

 

“No, sweetheart,” Trunks said softly, cupping her cheek with one hand. The anger softened and she framed his hand with hers.

 

“You will not be separated, but you will not mate until you are of proper age.”

 

“Then it should only be until I’m fifteen! I am then an adult by Saiyan law!” she screeched.

 

“Not by our law,” Sansai said, not without sympathy. She knew better than anyone what it was to pine for a bonded mate.

 

“There is a bigger difference than you realize between fifteen and eighteen. You will be properly matured by that time.”

 

To his eternal surprise, Daiya fell to her knees before them, sobbing great tears. Turles, undone by her anguish, knelt beside her, wrapping her in his burly embrace. Trunks felt the recoil of Sansai’s distress, and felt her resolve slip.

                                                       

_No, Beloved. We cannot give in with this. I will not let her do this at twelve, or fifteen! She will thank us for this later._

_I don’t know, Trunks. Rudaiya has your father’s temper and more Saiyan in her than Gohan. She will fight for him._  

 

“Please, Mama, Papa, don’t take him away from me!” she sobbed, face twisted in pathetic sorrow. Trunks frowned.

 

“Don’t be dramatic, Rudaiya! All we ask is that you wait a few years to grow up, which you have had to do by law anyway.”

 

“You’re making me wait twice as long! It’s not fair! We should--” she shouted, then was quieted by Turles. The boy rose, the very picture of his father.

 

“Prince Trunks, Princess Sansai, I understand your decision and respect it. I will wait as long as I must for your blessing. But . . . I cannot remain on Planet Vegeta. I cannot be with her and not want her, not look at her and wish she was mine. I will go--”

 

Rudaiya interrupted his speech, falling into his arms sobbing. Trunks saw anguish eloquent in every line of her, keening moans tearing from the deepest corners of her soul. Trunks felt a pang of sympathy even as his respect for Turles grew. Yes, this boy was worthy of his daughter.

 

“Please, Turles, don’t leave me! I love you! Please . . .” she choked. He said something too soft to hear, stroking her hair with unutterable tenderness. She quieted her sobs, sniffing bravely. Turles’ lips twitched in travesty of a smile. Sansai’s hand squeezed his.

 

“Turles,” she said shakily, “this is unnecessary. Just wait--”

 

“Our bond is not . . . normal. I feel no impetus to mark her, or . . .” he trailed off, blushing, “at least, not anymore than I did before. It will not hurt us to separate.”

 

“You cannot go,” Trunks said firmly, “you are not of age and without--” he paused and watched understanding and grief knife into his features. Rudaiya’s face echoed his pain.

 

“My parents are dead,” he said, his slanted black eyes clouded with pain, “and I should go to live with Kakkarot and Chi-Chi. But Sire, if you are to enforce this separation, I cannot stay on Planet Vegeta.”

 

“Damn,” Trunks muttered.

 

Suddenly, a few feet away, the air rippled, and the back draft of golden power smote Trunks’ consciousness. He tensed, subtly stepping in front of Sansai. Turles did the same for Daiya. Trunks blinked dumbly as his father and brother stepped out of the kaleidoscoping colors of whatever pocket dimension Instant Transmission used. The shock shifted to terror as Vegeta collapsed, bleeding from a hole through his belly. Geta, aglow in the aura of Super Saiyan, looked up at Trunks with such terrible fear and guilt in his emerald eyes.

           

“Gods help us,” Turles whispered.          

 

 


	8. Namek

Geta shook himself, dazed and exhilarated from the brief whirlwind of inertia he felt as Father used Instant Transmission. Smirking down at him, Father motioned to one side and together, soundlessly, they padded around the cargo crates on Cooler’s ship. Since the Namekians could conceal their planet with means no other race could circumvent, the only route to Namek was with Cooler and whatever coordinates he pilfered from Nail. Geta felt a brief pang at the memory of Sansai-neesan recounting her time with Frieza’s torturers. If Sansai-neesan had struggled, a weakling like Nail didn’t stand a chance.

 

_Yes, brat. Nail’s nothing but a green piece of meat by now. I cannot sense his energy. Dampen your power as much as you can, Vegeta. Cooler’s lackeys will no doubt have scouters._

 

Geta obeyed. They waited one minute, then two, and when they detected no movement in the ship above, the two Saiyans hunkered down for the remainder of the flight. It was safer and easier to speak mentally and Geta relished his father’s undivided attention. 

 

_We will wait until Cooler lands. Maybe we’ll even let him gather the dragonballs. What would you wish for, Vegeta? Wealth, power, immortality?_

His father’s voice filled every crevice and corner of his mind with its hoarse, half-rough, half-affectionate tones. His consciousness was fiercely powerful, proud and hard-edged, the quintessential Saiyan. Yet, twined indelibly with this unforgiving strength was the fluid joy of Mom, intelligent, wry and human.

 

Geta deployed his capsule of snacks and nibbled on a piece of space wafer, a dry and chalky substance with enough nutrients to power a Saiyan of his caliber for an entire day. Unappetizing as they were, Geta had not had an opportunity to eat properly before leaving for Daiya’s rescue. Father snapped up a piece of _y’far_ and dismantled it into neat segments as he ate. Geta could tell by tenor of Father’s emotions that he was not joking and thought carefully before answering.

_Wealth I have, and the power of gods runs through my veins,_ he said with an admiring smile. He felt Father’s smug pride and the whispers of the warmth of his love, carefully restrained.

 

 _Immortality, then,_ he offered. Geta scowled in perfect imitation of his sire.

 

 _I don’t think so. Everything dies,_ he shrugged, vibrantly aware of the steady black eyes on him, _besides, it would be a good thing to die in battle and leave my Empire to my heir. An immortal ruler would make the Universe stagnant, I think._

 

Then Father smiled, a true smile of joy and in a handful of seconds he felt the full measure of his father’s love and pride in him. Tears stung his eyes and he swallowed hard to still them. He would _not_ blubber like a baby!

 

_You are wiser than I was at your age, Vegeta. You are right. A good death and a good legacy are worthy more than millennia of existence. So what, then? What would you want?_

Geta sat in silence, pondering hard. He washed down the wafer with a swig of Mom’s soda, savoring the bubbling sweetness. Finally, he said: _Wisdom. I would wish for wisdom._

The planes of Father’s face relaxed, his head tilting to one side.

 

_Wisdom as your mother is wise—with science and machines? Wise as the Yardratians are—in psychic power? There are many types of wisdom._

_The wisdom of discernment. To know the right thing and to do it. I want to be able to know truth from lies and judge my people justly._

_That is nothing a dragon can give you, brat. You_ learn _such skills. As for me, I would wish that I had the power to resurrect my enemies at will. Then I would have the pleasure of defeating and killing them over and over._

 

Geta concealed his laughter with a cough.

 

 

 

 

Of all the worlds he’d seen and read about, Namek was one of the most anticlimactic. On the hidden world of Namek, home of the mystical dragonballs and peopled by strange beings with unusual powers, he expected a world of lush and mysterious beauty. Instead, he found a barren planet with three suns, a green sky, blue grass and odd, towering plateaus dotting the landscape. With a distasteful snarl, he followed the faint streak of Father traveling with super speed across the grass. Cooler and his soldiers had left, leaving a wide swath of destruction cutting through Namek’s countryside. While it was not their primary objective, Father said gruffly that they were to protect the inhabitants of Namek whenever possible.

 

“If I don’t, your mother will never let me hear the end of it,” he growled, nonchalantly blasting the only two soldiers that remained guarding the ramp. Together, as soon as they had made planetfall, they had laid waste to the ship, killing soldiers, raiding their supplies and hard drives, and rendering the ship incapable of flight. Either way, Cooler was not leaving Namek alive. Geta smirked and reached out with his mind toward Cooler and his men. The sucking, noxious chill of his evil shook him, but he set aside his fears and watched.

 

“They’ve found a village. What should we do, Father?” Geta asked, crouching beside him atop one of the plateaus. The elder Saiyan drummed his fingers against the blue grass, thinking. Then, he rose and rolled his shoulders in anticipation for battle.

 

“We fight. I cannot allow Cooler to roam, killing at will. We have superior power and the element of surprise. Vegeta, Cooler’s men are no weaklings like the ones left on the ship. Those are his elite corps, like Frieza’s Ginyu force. Do not underestimate them.”

 

Geta’s eyes wandered with new appreciation over the unremarkable forms clustered behind Cooler. One, with an impressive Mohawk crowning his head, held one of the Namekians, deviling him with an orb of ki. The pitiful green creature was weeping with fear.

 

“Now!” Father said, and together they flew like a thrown spear down to their enemies.

<^>

“So where is this planet again?” Bra asked, leaning over her mother’s shoulder to peer at the navigation specs. With a flick of pink-lacquered fingernails, Mom activated the auto-pilot and smiled at her. Bra was struck, as she was at odd moments, by how much she resembled her mother. Only subtle differences in her body shape and musculature—and of course, her tail—revealed that she was in fact half Saiyan.

 

“On the other side of nowhere, hun,” Mom said, widening the scope of the view to show clique after clique of empty space, “Broly chose a good hiding place.”

 

 _I only hope to the gods that Rudaiya is all right,_ Mom thought, quick, sharp fragments of horrible possibilities flashing across her mind. Bra gasped. With her training with the Elders of Yardrat, she could block any unwanted mind-reading, but old habits died hard and she kept her mind in a constant state of awareness. Her power was much stronger now, more focused. Even her healing ability was much stronger than she anticipated. The Elders—and even her family—awed at her strength. She was an oddity to them, used to the power of ki and body.

 

“I hope so too,” she said. Mom’s blue eyes sparked in interest. Her scientist’s mind found her power to be endlessly fascinating. _Hmm, does she do that at will or is it unconscious? Is it just familiar minds, like mine, or can she do it to anyone? What an amazing amount of stimuli, not only actions and words, but thought as well. I wonder if she—_ Bra rolled her eyes.

 

“Most of the time I sort of . . . skim the thoughts around me. It doesn’t matter who it is, but I try to block familiar minds, to give them privacy. But if someone is experiencing a particularly strong emotion, I can’t help but listen. I never actually entered anyone’s mind, out of politeness, but I could.”

 

Mom smiled and wrapped her in a quick hug.

 

“You caught me, hun. But you don’t have to be a mind-reader to see how healing cost you when you healed Geta. Be careful.”

 

“I will, Mom.” 

     

Leaving her to the controls, Bra leapt down the ladder chute to the sleeping quarters. Goten and Kakkarot were stuffing their faces with Chi-Chi’s cooking, who snapped good-naturedly at their deplorable table manners. Goten saw her and brightened, smiling even with a mouthful of dumpling.

 

“Hey Bra! You hungry?” he asked, words garbled by food. There was a saccharine happiness, undefeated in the face of separation, battle and pain that was almost sickening wafting from all three of them. It both amused and perplexed her.

 

“I’ll pass,” she said, climbing into her bunk. A push of a button closed off the outside world, cocooning her in darkness and silence. She closed her eyes and reached across the empty space separating her from the planet they flew to. Trunks-nissan was the easiest to find, then Sansai-nessan and Gohan and . . . whoa, _Turles_ was a Super Saiyan too! She flexed and thickened her mental probe, focusing on Turles’ energy. His thoughts and emotions flowed over her as if he stood beside her. She saw through his eyes Daiya lying there naked and bleeding and felt his fear as her own.

 

 _Daiya!_ She thought, cursing herself. If only she could heal from a distance!  Then, like a miracle, Rudaiya opened her blue eyes and beheld Turles. From her vantage point, Bra was surprised by the love in her eyes, reflected in Turles’ heart. She lay, tense with concentration, in the cool, humming quiet of her bunk, focused intensely on the events unfolding. She watched the bond form between Daiya and Turles, the same bewildering duality as the other bonded couples, but different somehow . . . more innocent, purer. A secret stab of longing pierced her heart. What of her beloved? Would she ever see him again? Exhausted, she released the energy and fell back in her bunk, slipping into a deep sleep.

 

 _Bra . . . Bra, sister! You need to wake up!_ Trunks-nissan’s consciousness rammed into hers, cool and sharp-edged with fear. Bra tore herself from unconsciousness and clamored out of her bunk. The ship was still and empty. Her brother stood, armor dented and scuffed from battle. His sword dripped blood. His handsome face was grave.

 

“What is it, Trunks-nissan?” she demanded, sending out desperate ripples of thought, restlessly probing, searching for the source of his anguish.

 

“Father.” They said in unison. Together they flew from the ship to the cliff a few yards away. Her papa lay still on the ground, and she would have thought him already dead if not for the fevered tenor of his thoughts, the blood pulsing from the wound in his chest and . . . Mom, writhing beside him. Her blue eyes were glazed with pain, blue hair spread across the unforgiving stone like a veil of silk. Moaning and thrashing in pain, she cried out Papa’s name over and over again. Trunks-nissan knelt beside Papa, their hands vised together. Sansai-neesan and Daiya tended Mom, Turles never more than an arm’s length from Daiya. Gohan and Goten stood behind Geta, lending their strength and support.

 

Their group clustered around them, babbling in contradicting voices. Papa and Mom were the crux of them all, all their hope relied on Papa’s power and Mom’s genius. Without them, whatever lay ahead would swallow them whole. Papa and Mom cleaved together in desperation on the mental plane, their dual souls merging into one. The force of their pain and fear swallowed her so for several precious seconds she was frozen in place.

 

“Bra!” shouted Geta, bringing her back to the present, haloed in the golden aura of Super Saiyan, “help them!” trembling, she knelt beside her prone father’s form, marshalling the power within her, soft and white like starlight.

 

“What happened?” she asked, prying Father’s hands from over the wound, red blood staining his white gloves. Crude bandages clogged the hole. Her stomach churned. A ki wound, obviously, a clean, cauterized wound with blood seeping from the skin.

 

“We . . . we faced Cooler on Namek. I—I was fighting his Elites and  . . . and Father was fighting Cooler. It wasn’t even fair, really. Cooler had no chance against Father in his ascended state . . .” Geta’s lips quivered, two tears streaking down his cheeks.

 

“It’s my fault! I was toying with them . . . then their leader, Taou, grabbed me from behind and held a ki orb to my chest. Father capitulated and powered down, ready to ransom himself for me. I broke free and killed them all, but not before Cooler blasted Father. In my rage, I transformed and fought Cooler. Father made the killing blow and we used _Shunkan Idō_. We barely made it here.”

 

She stilled herself, seeking the cool sanctum of her soul where her power resided. Gods, was she strong enough to pull him back from the brink? The effort of healing Geta had nearly killed her and Papa’s ki, so indelibly linked with his flesh, was many times stronger. But she would do it. She would heal her parents even if it killed her. She rested her hand over Papa’s stomach. At the touch of her hand, his eyes opened, glazed with pain. A tiny travesty of a smile touched his lips.

 

“Bra . . . gods, you look . . . so much like your mother . . .” Papa croaked, his face grey. His eyes rolled over Trunks-nissan and Sansai-neessan.

 

“Trunks . . . you are strong . . . I leave my Empire . . . in good hands.” Trunks-nissan’s eyes filled and a choked sound escaped Sansai. His black eyes found Geta’s, who wept in earnest. It was the first time Bra had seen her brother cry.

 

“Vegeta . . . it wasn’t your fault. Never think that.”

 

Fear sang through her as his ki dipped lower. She touched his cheek.

 

“I’m going to heal you, Papa. Just relax.”

 

Bra took a deep breath and found her center, retreating inward until all was still and silent. She flexed and tightened the edges of her control, testing it. Pleased, she reached out a tendril of power toward the weakened ki of her father. Warmth flooded her, running from her heart down her arms and glowing soft and white in her palms. When she healed, as when she used telepathy, she laid her soul bare, vulnerable. For one bewildering moment, she was lost in the flow of her power and her empathetic connection. It was as frightening as it was unnerving.

 

She was immersed in her father’s mind, seeing the battle, feeling his pain, both at the wound and his despair at dragging Mom down with him. She was stunned by the depth of feeling in him. He loved Mom more than life. He loved her, and Geta and Trunks and Sansai and even Kakkarot. He saw too, what it cost her, and despaired. Every layer of pride and gruff Saiyan indifference peeled away, she saw him for what he truly was and was washed in the deepest essence of him.

 

_You are too young, my princess, to ever feel such pain. I am sorry._

Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks and she focused instead on the pulsing knot of pain in his belly, flinched at the damage. Damn, his kidneys, several feet of intestine and part of his liver had been vaporized. She would have to regenerate new tissue. It would take a lot of energy . . .

Bra was impressed by the level of her papa’s control. A lesser man would be screaming and weeping. The iron of his concentration was clenched around the wound, only the faintest trickles leaked across the bond to Mom.

 

 _Goddamn it, Vegeta! I can take it! I’m strong enough! You have endured my suffering; now let me share in yours!_ she cried.

 

_Release it, Papa! I can’t heal you if you don’t let go!_

 

 _I won’t hurt you._ he said stubbornly.

 

 _Then you’ll die!_ Bra snapped, _would you let Mom die because you don’t want me to hurt a little? I am a princess of Saiyans, Papa! I am strong._

 

She used the only argument she knew would work with her father and was ready for the influx of pain as he capitulated. It cloaked her like a rippling bloody veil, held away from her psyche by a thin barrier of power. Bra marshaled her energy and pushed it into her father, mending flesh and bone and organs. Her arms shook. Her body screamed. Then, blessed energy filled her, golden and sweetly warm. Dimly, she sensed Geta behind her, giving her his Super Saiyan energy. Like escaping a riptide, Bra finished the healing with ease, riding the crest of the wave of power Geta had given her.

 

All four of them, joined in a rough circle, opened their eyes in the same instant. A cacophony of laughter and exclamations broke the humming tension as Papa and Mom sat up as if unharmed. Only the ragged hole in Papa’s battlesuit gave any indication of the peril endured. Together, they clamored into the ship and feasted on Chi-Chi’s delicious cooking, weaving the disparate threads of their stories together into a cohesive narrative. Broly, Bra learned, was still alive, though unconscious in one of the storage rooms. Trunks-nissan explained why he was still breathing to an irate Geta and a grim Kakkarot. Daiya corroborated their tale, sheltered under Turles’ burly arm. Upon hearing her brother’s ultimatum, Bra sympathized with the two lovestruck cubs.

<^>

Bulma wound her fingers through Vegeta’s beneath the table, thanking the gods once more for the incredible strength of their daughter. Their minds meshed together in a delicious fusion, the bliss broken only by worry.

 

 _It’s coming. I can feel it. We need to be ready,_ he said.   Bulma chewed on her lower lip thoughtfully. A great crossroads forked before them. The main body of the _Sorva_ still floated on the edges of destiny. When they struck—and it was now when, not if—they had to marshal every weapon they had. And with Planet Vegeta in chaos . . .

 

 _Do you think Zorn will be the one to unleash them?_ She asked him. He snarled, remembered anger flaring to life.

 

_Perhaps. It was not Cooler; Vegeta and I could not find any record of them in his ship. It is possible._

Gohan broke into their silent conversation by heaving a gusty sigh, a ring of tomato sauce rimming his mouth. Vegeta snorted.

 

“You have a fine appetite, brat,” he complimented, eyeing his grandson affectionately. Gohan beamed, the same sweet, bright child that captured their hearts from the moment he opened his blue eyes. Then, a cloud passed over his countenance and Bulma reached across the table and grabbed his hand in concern.

 

“What is it, hun?”

 

With his serious expression and grave gaze wandering over the ring of familiar faces, he looked so much like his father that Bulma felt a soft catch in her chest. His eyes came to rest on his parents, who were equally grave.

 

“I have decided to go to Zala,” he said, coolly but firmly. It was the voice of an adult, a warrior tempered by battle, a travesty when he was only twelve.

 

“Listen here, mister, you’re coming back with us to Planet Vegeta!” Bulma screeched, a tiny weed of fear blooming at the thought of Gohan going off into space all by himself. Bra, Sansai and Daiya leapt up and heaped similar indignant arguments upon Gohan, while the men sat silent.

 

_Woman, he is nearly a man. It is his decision. Besides, we need the power that sleeps in the boy for what is to come._

Stymied by his logic, Bulma struggled against tears. Why couldn’t they have a decade of peace? Sansai looked similarly despairing, when Trunks’ mellow voice broke through the clamoring voices.

 

“Why do you want to go to Zala, Gohan? If it is training you want, can we not do so on Planet Vegeta?”

 

Gohan’s smile was sad, his eyes mournful blue orbs.

 

“You need to spend time training too, Papa, not teaching me the basics. I don’t want you to die because of me wanting your time and attention.”

 

Bulma watched realization dawn on her son’s face, all color draining away. She was sure her own face bore a likewise expression.  All of them fell silent, remembering hollowly Bardock’s tale of doom. He was never wrong.

 

“What was the riddle Supreme Kai told you, Father? Maybe it will make more sense now,” Geta offered, scowling.

 

“It isn’t much. ‘ _In the darkest hour, two will be one and the sun will light the way.’_ Meaningless drabble,” Vegeta growled. Bulma caught a brightening in expression on Bra’s face.

 

“Two will be one!” she cried, “That’s it! The Elders of Yardrat, they told me of their sister planet, Syoul, where psychic warriors practiced an ancient technique. I can’t pronounce their word for it, but it means fusion!”

 

“Fusion?” Kakkarot repeated. Bra nodded.

 

“It’s when two warriors of comparable skills fuse bodies to form a new hybrid of combined strength. It’s only temporary, and the two have to be close to the same age, same power level, same height . . . and I’m pretty sure they can’t be related.”

 

Bulma felt a tiny prickle across her skin, of premonition, she thought. This was it. This was what Supreme Kai had meant. All of them turned their eyes to Geta and Goten. They, in turn, looked at each other.

 

“But I’m a Super Saiyan, now. Could we still fuse?” Geta pointed out. Goku chuckled. Bulma cocked her head, giving him a narrow glare.

 

“What are you giggling about, Goku?” she demanded. His black eyes sparkled, with both pride and grief.

 

“Actually Geta, Goten transformed too when . . . when he saw what happened to Raditz.”

 

Silence ruled for a handful of heartbeats and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Daiya stroke Turles’ hand comfortingly. A confused tangle of emotions rose in her heart looking at them. Irritation, surely, and maybe a fluttering satisfaction at the sheer romantic implications. They had loved each other as children and that was incredibly rare.

 

“What do you say, boys? Will you learn this fusion?” Vegeta posed the question in a grave and formal voice and Bulma watched with pride as her son nodded without hesitation. And Goten, his loyal companion, agreed as well. Bulma bit her lip. She knew, she _knew_ it was necessary for the survival of them all, for the fate of the Universe, but she hated that their group would splinter, that her children would disappear into space to train. She saw a similar conflict within Chi-Chi and Sansai. It was a mother’s battle, whether human or Saiyan.

 

It was soon settled. Geta and Goten would travel to Syoul to begin their training in fusion. Bra would return to Yardrat to complete her training, and Gohan would go to Zala, accompanied by Turles, Kakkarot and Chi-Chi. Trunks, Sansai, Vegeta and herself would return to Planet Vegeta and attempt to rebuild their Capital from the ashes. Goodbyes were hasty to avoid shedding tears. The date was set to return to Planet Vegeta, if only briefly, for their fifteenth birthdays and the Trial of the Moon that would make them adults by Saiyan law.

 

Bulma only prayed that all their sacrifice would be enough.

<^>

“Bra,” Vegeta rasped, halting his daughter’s progress from the table. He scanned her ki quickly, noting her exhaustion and pallor at healing him. A brief pang of guilt assailed him, but he brushed it aside. Bra bore him no ill will, and without her, he would be dead now and Bulma with him along with their only hope in defeating the _Sorva_. As his daughter so eloquently put it, she was the princess of Saiyans.

 

Her blue eyes shone as she looked at him, with the same adoring love as Vegeta and Trunks. A human trait, no doubt, to display it so blatantly.

  
”What is it, Papa?” she asked, her voice like the chiming of bells.

 

“Come with me,” he grunted, and descended to the hold. He carefully turned his thoughts over mundane things, lest she discern his purpose before he gathered his thoughts. Only when they stopped before a storage room what she balked, realizing where they were.

 

“Papa?” she asked softly. Vegeta turned, his face a grim mask of a king. His emotions roiled. He despised asking yet more of her, his darling princess. In his world, dominated by men and boys, his daughter had captured his heart in a way that surprised and confused him. She bent him to her will as easily as her mother, possessing all of her human wiles with the steel of Saiyan will. It was only her power that could mend this wrong.

 

He sighed, watching comprehension dawn on her face as she gleaned his thoughts. She flinched, small, pale hands balling into white-knuckled fists at her sides.

 

“No.” she said simply.                                                                                                       

 

“No?” he repeated gently, “if you won’t, I will have to kill him. I cannot suffer him to live with his power, not after what he did to Raditz, Vegeta, Goten, and Rudaiya.” As each name fell from his lips, she flinched, taking a half step back as if she meant to run.

 

“Oh Papa . . .” she quavered and great tears welled in her eyes, streaking down her cheeks like liquid diamonds. He could no more bear her tears than he could bear her mother’s, so he swept her into his embrace, swiftly, awkwardly. Her scent of soft lilac with the hint of Planet Vegeta’s desert roses wafted up his nostrils.

 

“I cannot imagine how difficult this is for you, but I will not let you be hurt. I will be with you the whole way,” he reassured her. With a soft sigh, her consciousness hardened in determination.

 

“Fine,” she hissed. She stormed through the door and knelt beside Broly’s inert form. The wounds of his arms from Trunks and Gohan’s swords were bandaged, his face blissful in repose. Her face like the wrath of gods, Bra pressed her hands to his temples and focused. Vegeta only felt the vaguest whispers of her power, impressive in its magnitude sweep past him and into Broly. He positioned himself behind her, channeling his energy into her body. Connected as they were, he felt disorienting fragments of sensation and thought: Sansai’s face, soft in childhood, smiling up at Broly. Midnight whispers of madness under a swollen moon, fear at the monster of power sleeping within him . . . killing and battle, with brief, horror-stricken moments of lucidity, terrible in their clarity . . .

 

An audible snap broke the connection and Bra sank back, and Vegeta enfolded her in his arms. Grey-faced and panting, she took in several shaking breaths.

 

“There. I broke his ki. He won’t be able to harm anyone else. I sealed off his mind as best I could, but his personality is so fragmented now, I’m not sure if he’ll ever be whole. I’ll take him to the Elders. They can help him more than I . . .” she trailed off, brushing Broly’s brow with the gentleness of a mother to a child.

 

“He really loved her, Papa. It . . . it wasn’t his fault he turned out this way!” she broke off, sobs tearing through her. Vegeta had no words of comfort, but only held her as the tears drained away, thinking of the powerful young man he had placed on his squad, the pride in Paragus’ eyes, the somber way he carried himself. If only . . . regret was a rare thing for him, but he could have done better. Vegeta swept Bra into his arms and left Broly to sleep. He crept over the tangled bodies of Vegeta and Goten in their pallet on the floor and set Bra into her bunk.

 

“Sleep now, Bra. All will be better in the morning,” he said. She settled into the bed’s soft embrace gratefully. He picked his way over outflung arms, legs and tails.

 

“Papa?” she called. He looked back at her, blue eyes glowing catlike in the semi-darkness.

 

“Never ask me to do that again.”


	9. Fool Me Twice...

**Planet Vegeta- Six Years Later**

 

Her uncle’s strong hand wrapped around her ankle, halting her upward progress cold. She was ready for him, and even inverted as she was, she loosed a golden disc of energy into his face. Stunned, his grip relaxed, and Rudaiya braced her hands in the snow and sprung away, landing in a ready position. Geta stood with his arms crossed, a slight smirk stealing across the stern features painted in the pale colors of Super Saiyan. A green eye darted to one side and Rudaiya turned, only to be met with a vicious uppercut that sent her sprawling. Pain exploded along her jaw. Tail lashing in agitation, Rudaiya snarled and leapt up to face her attacker. Her mother stood, blazing gold in her Super Saiyan form, in a similar attitude of smug superiority as Geta.

 

“If you had opened your senses Daiya, you would have sensed your mother ready to ambush you,” Geta pointed out. Blue eyes locked with the emerald green of her mother’s, Rudaiya reached for the power that was so newly hers, that beautiful shining gold of the Legendary that warmed her limbs like the rays of Planet Vegeta’s sun.

 

 _I am so proud of you, my daughter_ , whispered Sansai softly, her pride and love overwhelming Rudaiya until tears filmed her eyes.

 

_Thank you, Mama._

A girl wedded and bonded at the tender age of twelve, she had vowed never to forgive her parents for separating her from Turles. That vow hadn’t lasted a week. She despised the separation, despised how cold and barren she felt within her own soul, unable to share with him her most secret thoughts, but she did not—could not—hold any ill will for her parents. Her heart still ached with memories of her first master, a grief that would never be assuaged. Zul-sensei, the cantankerous, distant, arrogant Ice Clan, had loved her enough to die protecting her. She missed him as she missed Turles, with the deepest part of her soul.

 

Their bond was different. The bond between her parents and her grandparents was fueled by adult desires, primal claiming and intimate joining of soul. What existed between herself and Turles was purer, sweeter, an innocent fusion of heart and mind. Despite the depth of her love, she could not reach across light-years of space like Bra and pluck his thoughts from the discordant sea of noise. There had been infrequent hyper light messages from him—as well as from her uncle, her brother and aunt—but it was a paltry replacement for what they had shared before. They spoke cordially, of unimportant things, and she knew that ‘I miss you’ and ‘I love you’ were cheap and weak words for what they felt.

 

Their web of family and friendship was spread across the vast reaches of space. Grandfather and Gran, Mama and Papa had spent their time training, building and preparing. The best of Saiyan stone-workers labored to rebuild the palace and even from atop Mount Ur, Rudaiya could see the skeleton of it thrusting up into the velvet purple sky. Awing Elder and master alike, Bra had completed her training among the Yardrat and Syouli peoples. Geta and Goten, along with Chi-Chi and Kakkarot, stayed on Syoul, learning fusion. The four of them had just arrived yesterday from Syoul. And several Elite families, escaping the turmoil of the Captial, fled to colonies, including one on Zala, where Gohan and Turles stayed. It comforted her parents, she knew, knowing that he wasn’t alone.

 

In all their years of preparation, there were whispers of the _Sorva_ along the Outer Rim. Whatever face their enemy wore; they had begun to gobble up systems beyond the Empire’s borders, among the remnants of the old Cold dynasty.

 

As Mama and Geta teamed up against her, Rudaiya felt a thrill of fear and power. What had been building since before she was born was finally coming to fruition. Her family would face destruction once more, holding death at bay one last time. There was no fail-safe, no dragonballs to make everything better. Even Gran’s time machine was in Supreme Kai’s care.

 

Rudaiya blocked Geta’s punch with her own, fending off Mama’s leg kick at the same time. The crust of permafrost broke, her golden aura scorching the fragile flora beneath. The blazing aura of three Super Saiyans revolved like three orbiting stars, only to streak like flashing comets with each combination. The rumbles of their battle echoed across the wastes. Mama’s eyes blanked in telepathic communication and Rudaiya, annoyed at being so hard pressed, lunged forward pressing the weakness. Almost nonchalantly, Mama batted away the attack. Sansai, daughter of Aspar and Negi, had been a seasoned warrior since she was younger than Rudaiya was now. Her face clearing, she said, “Stop! They’re here!”

 

Not waiting for further explanation, Rudaiya leapt into the air, blazing like a golden comet across the sky. Her heart sang with joy, beating a tattoo to his name. _Turles, Turles, Turles!_   

All of her family gathered now on Planet Vegeta to plan their next move . . . and to witness the mating of Turles, son of Raditz and Seripa to Rudaiya, daughter of Prince Trunks and Sansai.

 

Then, she felt him. Everything that was within her soul melted, and met his in a tidal wave of thoughts and emotions. Every hurt soothed, every desire mirrored, every ache eased. Joy filled her until every cell seemed to sing. Longing nearly paralyzed her, and her emerald eyes raked the sky for him.

 

Like a miracle, she saw him, a winking golden light winging toward her. With a wordless cry of delight, she poured on more speed, breaking the sound barrier. They met with a deafening crack, wheeling in a golden spiral, embracing with bone-cracking fervor. She had seen him only briefly on their fifteenth birthdays, when their families gathered for the rites of passage that would make them adults. Bra—the youngest of their group—had turned fifteen not six months ago, but the interim felt like an eternity.

 

Rudaiya opened her eyes and devoured every nuance of his face. He had matured from the thirteen year old boy whom she bonded. He grew to his adult height, greater even than his father’s prodigious size, closer to seven feet than six. Though more slender than his sire, he was still more muscular than any other in their group and the envy of Geta and Goten. Painted in Super Saiyan gold, Turles’ hair hung down to his waist in gleaming spikes, his blond tail wound around his waist. Slanted green eyes took in every inch of her with a roving hunger only matched by her own. He looked like Grandfather in his level three form, with only minor differences in his facial structure. His callused hands framed her face, a tiny smile touching his thin lips.

 

_My little warrior . . . my bride . . . you are beautiful._

Her heart swelled.

 

_Turles . . . at last we are together._

 

At last, all was right with the world.

<^>

Sansai closed her eyes, savoring the lap of the warm ocean against her toes, the downy red sand radiating heat even as the air chilled at the onset of night. Idly, she stroked her mate’s hair, his head pillowed on her belly. Contentment settled over her, a foreign stillness that undermined her warrior’s resolve. But then Trunks’ human emotions had long since ingrained into her, tempering her ferocity. Her Saiyan instincts, in turn, had made him more than the polite, gently-reared hybrid he had been when they met.

 

They complimented each other, she thought, and their happiness remained undiminished after nearly twenty years of marriage. Trunks chuckled, grabbing her hand and kissing her palm. Ticklish pleasure burned her nerve endings. Finding privacy and time together had been difficult of late, so the brief respite from training and responsibility and the impending doom of the Universe was sweet.

 

 _At least I won’t enter the void alone,_ she thought. Trunks lifted his head and crawled up her body, pinning her with his weight. His hands cupped her head tenderly, and Sansai was overwhelmed by the emotion in his blue eyes.

 

_No, you won’t. We will win, my love. We will. All of us, we’re strong enough now. Kakkarot almost reached the third level today. Geta and Goten are the second level in their fused form, and could be more. And Gohan . . ._

_Gohan’s power is different. He is stronger than all of us, I think, but hates hurting people. Like your sensei Gohan._

 

A slight smile touched his lips.

 

_Yes. Like my sensei Gohan._

Silence echoed between them, their emotions melding and twisting together in tandem, each lost in grisly visions of the future. Gods, how had she ever lived without him?

 

_I love you._

 

Linked as intimately as they were, Sansai didn’t know if the thought was hers or his, but it remained true regardless.

He kissed her, deeply, their tongues tangling in languid caresses. Desire unfurled in her belly and she broke the kiss with a laugh. There was nothing worse than sampling the paradise he offered and having nowhere to go with it.      

 

“We should get back. The ceremony will start soon. We can’t be late to our daughter’s mating ceremony!” she said. Hands linked, they blasted into the velvety purple of the sky.

<^>

The Saiyan mating ceremony had none of the pageantry and fuss of a human wedding, Bulma thought. Their family gathered in the main hall of the summer palace, the old _kahntor_ Mistuba officiating. Rudaiya looked fierce and beautiful in an Elite’s armor, Turles an imposing match. There was no music, no flowers, no toasts. The ceremony reflected the staunch, matter-of-fact nature of the people, more concerned with the life and battles ahead than any shining moment of frippery.

 

Indignance burned within her. Her only granddaughter deserved a wedding dress, at the very least! But Rudaiya, aglow in her Super Saiyan aura, had said in a very calm voice that she would not allow anything to delay her mating, especially if it meant indulging her ‘silly human traditions.’ It was, Bulma thought wryly, very hard to argue with a Super Saiyan. Vegeta, hearing her thoughts, snickered. She smiled and laced her hand through his. The two of them had never had such a ceremony, human or otherwise, so Bulma yearned to lavish her unfulfilled dreams on her granddaughter. Perhaps Bra would allow it when she found a husband . . .

 

 _Gods forbid,_ Vegeta thought. The tenor of his emotions, brilliantly happy for Rudaiya, though he would not show an iota of it, softened slightly.

 

_Did you want a ceremony, my mate? We are bonded. I saw no need to—_

 

 _It’s all right, Vegeta. My life with you has been a happy one. I wouldn’t trade it for a thousand ceremonies._ Words were cheap, unwieldy things compared to what they shared through their bond, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.  

 

Bulma glanced over at Chi-Chi and saw her dissatisfaction mirrored there, if for a different reason. She had always angled for her Goten to mate with Rudaiya, her human heritage a temperance to that of a full-blood Saiyan. Though Chi-Chi was like a force of nature, no one had expected Rudaiya’s childhood sweetheart would one day become her mate, and bonded, no less!

 

Despite these discrepancies, Bulma noted, there were basic similarities. The loving shine in the wedding pair’s eyes was the same, as was the shimmering veil of emotion connecting each of them. Sansai’s eyes shone with moisture as Mitsuba joined their hands and asked them to repeat a vow. Turles’ deep bass voice was echoed by Rudaiya’s soft alto. And they were mated. No kiss, no fanfare, just a spoken word and they were one by law as well as by soul. As their family converged on them in a cacophony of congratulations and laughter, Bulma wondered for the thousandth time how long this tenuous peace would last.

 

As with any Saiyan gathering, there was a feast that put shame to all other feasts. From her vantage point beside Vegeta, she watched the wedded couple uttering soft words to each other, sharing wine from a massive golden wedding cup between plates of food. Trunks and Sansai were in a similar state of blissful happiness, as always, needing no company but each other’s. Chi-Chi’s shrill voice scolded Goku with affectionate annoyance on ruining yet another shirt in his voracious gorging. The three young bachelors, Goten, Geta, and Gohan were locked in an intense contest to see who could eat the most without stopping or vomiting. As far as Bulma could tell, Goten was winning. Bra sat sandwiched between her brother and her nephew, watching the proceedings with an air of withdrawn distance.

 

Bulma felt a pang of mixed concern and wonder. Her daughter looked more like her everyday, her mind quicker and more fertile. Her power and intelligence isolated her from her peers; from anyone really, save for the kind Yardratians whom she had befriended. She had even adopted their dress, with a sleek Saiyan twist. Her long blue hair, bound in a spiky knot, was held by a six inch spike of diamond thrust though it, bobs of purple-hued Yardratian pearls hanging from her ears. Her tail wound around her waist was the only clue that she was half-Saiyan.

 

Even at the flower of her adulthood, her ki paled in comparison to her siblings’, she was the only one not to reach Super Saiyan. While Bra did not concern herself with it, Bulma knew in some secret place within his heart, Vegeta did not know how to act around her. Vegeta had taught Bra _Shunkan Idō,_ and Bulma knew that such a skill would be invaluable in the coming battle. Bulma glanced back at Rudaiya and Turles, who shared a lingering kiss. Bra had also lost the closest thing she had to a sister to her new mate, and it undoubtedly stung.

 

 _What’s on your mind, hun?_ Bulma thought, knowing that Bra would hear. Blue eyes met blue as Bra looked up. Her smile too, was distant. The brush of her consciousness was almost overwhelming, her personality a bright punch of warm light.

 

_It’s nothing, Mom. After being around the Yardrat and Syoul peoples for so long, I almost forgot how being around Saiyans could be. It just takes some getting used to._

 

Bulma hoped that was true.

<^>

Their suite was massive, even by her family’s standards, and was luxurious enough to make any Elite green with jealousy. A balcony, a bathing room, a small kitchen offering every imaginable delicacy . . . and a bed. She was suddenly assaulted by a vision of her naked beneath Turles, her hands fisted in his hair . . . his fingers tightened around hers, his slanted black eyes searing to hers.

 

 _Rudaiya . . ._ he said softly in her thoughts, his love shrouded in a pulsating veil of lust. She obeyed his entreaty, and in the next instant she was in his arms, devouring his mouth with hungry, biting kisses, passion bubbling from a wellspring deep inside her. His hands wandered over her, gentle and possessive.

 

 _Mine,_ he thought with primal satisfaction.

 

 _Yours,_ she echoed. 

 

Moist heat seeped between her thighs as Turles removed her armor, then his, and the top half of his battlesuit. She breathed in a ragged breath between kisses at the sight of his magnificent chest bared before her. There was a primitive glory in the breadth of muscle and sinew, cloaked in taut olive skin. Her hands caressed his smooth flesh, feeling the fevered beating of his heart. His fingers cupped her face, and broke the contact of their mouths. Warm breath fluttered over her face, his lips red and swollen from the intensity of their kisses. Rudaiya let out a soft sound of dissatisfaction, and was gifted with a smile.

 

“Give me a moment, my love. I don’t trust my cousin,” he growled. For a moment, the words didn’t make sense, and Rudaiya sat on the edge of the bed trying to catch her breath. She leapt up again at the jangling noise. Turles lifted the bed with one hand and found strings of bells attached to the frame. The slightest movement from the bed above emitted a discordant jangle of sound.

 

“Geta,” she said, spiting out the word like an epithet.

 

“Goten,” Turles said in an echoing tone. Rudaiya bent and began untying the bells one by one.

 

“Remind me to kill them in morning,” she snarled. Turles laughed and she reluctantly shared in it. The sound broke the tension and deepened the intimacy between them. Though they had spent every conceivable second together since his arrival, the time was paltry when surrounded by family and friends and well-wishers. When the last bell was removed, Turles lowered the bed to the floor. Rudaiya, eager to resume, flicked off her boots. He did likewise. He closed the distance between them in one long stride and cupped her cheek.

 

“You are so beautiful, Rudaiya. Do you know that? I’ve wanted to tell you that, but I didn’t want to make our separation any worse. You are my family now. My princess . . . my bride . . .” as he spoke, his hand slid down the column of her throat, tracing her collarbone, then dipping down to cup her breast. Her breath came out in a soft hiccup, everything inside her growing warm and nerve endings burning. She fisted her hands in the thick, coarse fall of his hair, as she had longed to do for so long, and dragged his mouth to hers. She abandoned spoken words for the swift, intimate exchange of emotion through their bond, now as sharp and clear as glass.

 

_I love you, Turles, my mate. Please . . . make me yours._

Her mate groaned against the seal of her lips, large, warm hands molding to the curves of her body, tugging impatiently at her clothes. She did likewise and soon they were both naked. The evidence of his desire prodded her belly with each deepening caress of his mouth, his tongue thrusting within her mouth in erotic suggestion. Her knees gave out and together they fell back on the bed. His size and weight pressed upon her, but she craved more, more of his flesh, more of his touch in a hunger she hadn’t believed possible in the past six years of separation.

 

His mouth left hers to worship the flesh of her neck, nuzzling and sucking. Pleasure burned through her senses, drugging her into madness. His tongue traced the peak of her breast, circling the tender bud of her nipple. She cried out, digging her hands into his mane, holding him there. His hand slid down over her taut belly, delving into the soft folds of her womanhood. Rudaiya arched up as the callused pad of his finger found her exquisitely firm nub.

 

 _Gods . . ._ he rasped in her mind, even his thought-voice hoarsened with arousal, _you’re so slick . . ._ his fingers stroked her, his tongue laved the pert mounds of her breasts, his hair tickled her sensitized skin. Overloaded by sensation, she arched up with a rabid cry, riding the wicked edge between pain and pleasure.

 

“Turles . . .” she said, weak, pulsing, spreading her legs to welcome him. His eyes smoldering, he settled between her thighs, his penis prodding her entrance. He groaned and for fevered moment ground against her thigh, the erotic friction bringing them both dangerously close to climax. He stopped by sheer force of will, tension quivering through his large frame. An ache pulsed inside her, longing for his hardness.

 

 _Control, goddamn it! You love her, so get your shit together! There is no way you can please her like this!_ He thought viciously to himself. Rudaiya felt the strange urge to laugh, but she contented herself with kissing him, his mouth, his cheek, the frown line between his brows. Beneath the thick mane of his hair, Rudaiya molded the sensitive pads of her fingertips to the corded strength of his shoulders and back, heaving with heat and arousal, sweat dampening the smooth skin. Loosely, she grasped the base of his tail. He shuddered and caught her lip in a Saiyan kiss.

 

His hands grasped her hips and slowly, he nudged inside her. A gasp caught in her throat. He was too big! Stretched and seared by the hardness and heat of him, her hips undulated, adjusting with each penetrating inch. Turles lay poised above her, rigidly still as she accustomed herself to his presence inside her, his face a fierce mask of concentration. Tenderness welled within her as she relaxed. Her mate did not want to hurt her with his love. She stroked his brow.

 

“I love you, Turles,” she whispered, arching up in invitation, primally pleased by his tortured moan. Slowly, he began to move, sending wild waves of pleasure through her entire body.

 

“Gods, Daiya, I love you. I love you!” he cried, his pace building in sweet torture. The force and recoil of his thrusting grew faster, pleasure converging upon her. She came again in wracking spasms around him, her inner walls milking him. He thrust deep one last time, his hot seed bathing her womb. Bound in bliss in both body and soul, they lay in sweet stillness until the fires of passion flared and they began anew.

<^>

In another suite, a similar coupling unfolded. Bra had never believed she could be this beautifully, incandescently happy. He had followed her. Despite the danger, he had come to her. She had thought him killed with the hundreds of others that terrible day in the Capital, so it made their reunion three years ago that much more beautiful and surprising. Oh, her wonderful beloved, he had waited until she was of proper age before they were mated, and a more blissful six months there had never been in all of creation. He had grown a goatee, a neatly trimmed oval of black hair around his lips. His beard tickled her skin as his mouth worshipped her flesh, following the contours of her body to her throbbing core, selflessly giving her pleasure before taking his own. In such extremis of passion, Bra could not control her power and his thoughts and emotions washed over in exquisite waves, as soul-shaking as the pleasure that wracked her flesh at the sweet caresses of his mouth.

 

Driven gloriously mad by his touch, she dragged his mouth up to hers, tasting herself on his lips, and thrusting her hips up in demand. The moment of penetration was still as hot and heady and fulfilling as it had always been, and he threw back his head in rapture as he began to move over her, within her.

 

When her lover looked down on her with such tenderness, the moon gilding the glistening muscles of him flexing and coiling above her, Bra resisted the urge to bite, to drink, to bind him to herself. From her parents, from her brother, she gleaned the anguish they felt when they considered the fate that awaited their families if they died. If Trunks-nissan was killed, then Rudaiya and Gohan would be orphans, as Turles was. Bra did not wish to endure that. Instead, she bit at his mouth in a Saiyan kiss, drawing him over the edge into pleasure with her. He spilled his seed inside her and collapsed in a panting, quivering heap atop her. Bra stroked his back gently, feeling the rough shapes of forgotten scars on the sleek muscle.

 

“I love you, Bra,” he rasped in her ear as he nuzzled her neck. Her heart, slowly thudding in the wake of her climax, hitched at the softly spoken words. 

 

“I love you too, Zorn.”

<^>

Vegeta leapt from bed before dawn the next morning, his body tense and alert. His black eyes raked his surroundings, a tense frown marring his brow. What had woken him? His woman lay sprawled on her belly, the sheet and coverlet tangled from their midnight activities, the rounded curves of her buttocks bared to the night’s chill. Gently, he grazed over the familiar kis around him, most of the wedded couples locked in the same sweet combat as he and his woman engaged in. Goten and Geta snored in peaceful camaraderie, Gohan reading by moonlight.

 

There! The unfamiliar burn of ki—coming from Bra’s room! Vegeta cursed viciously in Saiyago, leaping into gi pants. Focusing, he pressed his fingers to his brow in the characteristic pose of _Shunkan Idō_ and phased into Bra’s room. The sight that met his eyes would be burned into his brain forever. A Saiyan lay in bed with his little girl, his disgusting hands touching her naked flesh possessively. With an inarticulate roar, aglow with ki, Vegeta seized the man by the neck and slammed him against the wall as he would have with any man who would dare to touch his daughter. As recognition dawned, Vegeta would have snapped his neck.

 

 ** _“Papa, no!”_** she screamed aloud and with her power, very nearly destroying his mind with the force of her command. Vegeta snarled, but loosened his grip by the minutest fraction. He glared back at his youngest child, his only daughter and fought down grief and disgust at the sight of her, face flushed and eyes glazed, a sheet clutched over her nakedness.

 

“Give me one good reason not to tear this pathetic runt— _Tarah’s_ son!—into bloody pieces,” he growled, words hushed with deadly malice. Bra rose from the bed, tucking the sheet around her in a makeshift dress, her blue eyes blazing. She lifted one pale hand and extended it toward him, palm up, as if in supplication. Quite suddenly, Vegeta’s legs were frozen in place, the brilliant blaze of his ki snuffed out. Her presence filled his mind, warm and bright and filled with shining, pulsing love—for him and for this squirming whelp he held, who clawed at his imprisoning hand, face turning a hideous shade of puce.

 

 ** _Let him go,_** commanded the beautiful goddess that was his daughter. His fingers ceased to obey his will and loosened. Zorn fell to the floor, coughing and clutching his throat. The impersonal ferocity Bra shrouded herself with disappeared and she flew to his side, healing his throat with a tender brush of her fingers. Vegeta harnessed his ki and broke the psychic bond imprisoning him.

 

“What is the meaning of this, Bra? You’re _fucking_ that traitor in my house?!”

 

An instant of grief and sorrow darted across her face and Vegeta saw the darling princess that could bend him to her every whim.

 

“Let me explain, Papa,” she said, looking dreadfully young. An instant later, Trunks barreled in, sword drawn, with Sansai at his heels. Vegeta remembered that their suite was the closest, just down the hall. A quick scan told him that this little party was about to have more members.

 

Sansai’s eyes alighted on Zorn, hunched naked against the destroyed wall and exploded into Super Saiyan, a solid wall of power.

 

 _“You!”_ she howled, and lunged for Zorn’s prone form. Swift as striking lightning, Bra stepped forward and touched the center of Sansai’s forehead. The two of them were locked in a silent, deadly standoff and Vegeta felt Sansai’s ki dwindle, the colors of Super Saiyan fading as if drained from her. Then she fell to the floor as if dead. Trunks let out a cry like a wounded lion and knelt beside his mate, turning her over gently.

 

“My god, Bra, what have you done?” Trunks roared, horror painted on his features. Vegeta too, looked at his daughter as if he had never seen the like of her.

 

“I blocked her ki. I did what I had to. She was going to hurt Zorn,” Bra said, her voice quavering despite the hard words, tears sliding down her cheeks. Looking up at him, she degenerated into sobs. A pang stabbed his heart.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, Papa! Like I’m some kind of monster!” she sobbed. By this time, Zorn had clothed himself and rose, wrapping his arm protectively around Bra. She turned into his chest, her tail wrapping around his waist.

 

“What have you done to her?” Vegeta demanded of him. What had happened to her that she would attack Sansai to protect this traitor? Zorn’s mouth tipped into a dry smirk so reminiscent of his father that Vegeta longed to tear it from his face.

 

“I’ve done nothing that she has not asked for, King Vegeta. She is my mate,” he said calmly, his black eyes never leaving Vegeta’s.

 

“Like hell she is. I won’t let you touch my sister.” Trunks said softly and Vegeta felt fierce pride in the boy. His loyalty to his family was admirable, especially in light of what Bra had done to Sansai. Bra smiled through her tears.

 

“Trunks-nissan, I know you want to protect me, and Sansai-neesan too.” With a flick of her wrist, Sansai woke, clutching her head. With a sob, Trunks embraced her. Vegeta, Kakkarot’s brat and Gohan exploded into the room, ready to fight, followed closely by Rudaiya and her new mate. His woman, Kakkarot and his harpy soon followed. They all took in Trunks and Sansai on the floor, Vegeta in his fighting stance, and Bra wrapped up in Zorn’s embrace. Their voices rose in a cacophony of accusations, curses and questions.

 

“Quiet!” Vegeta barked, a headache beginning to pound behind his eyes. They obeyed, and in terse words, Vegeta explained the goings on.

 

“How did you survive, you fucking traitor?” Turles snarled, his wide face alight with hate. He no doubt blamed Zorn for Broly’s attack and his parents’ deaths. Zorn smirked again, malice glowing in his black eyes as he scanned the ring of angry faces.

 

“I was clever enough to escape before the _Sorva_ drained the prince’s second class whore dry and decide to snack on me. Broly was my father’s idea. Letting a loose cannon like him on Planet Vegeta was madness, but, then again, my father was consumed by his hate for the blue woman and her brats. I was merely his tool.”

 

“You would have killed Trunks and I! Unwilling or not, you are a traitor to the crown and Planet Vegeta,” Sansai snarled, glaring murder at him. 

 

“But I am also mated to the princess of Saiyans,” Zorn challenged, his arm tightening around Bra.

 

Silence. Thick and noxious.    

 

“Bra, honey is that true?” his woman said softly, in entreaty, coming to his side. Her blue eyes held a mixture of pain and gentle question. Not moving from the safety of Zorn’s embrace, Bra nodded once.

 

“Bonded?” Prince Vegeta asked stonily.

 

“No,” Bra said in a small voice. Vegeta lifted his arm, his palm aglow with gold light. Fierce, violent rage sang through his body, at Bra’s fear for her _mate_ , at Zorn’s sneering face, at the whole goddamned situation.

 

“Then what’s to stop me from killing you, you traitorous bastard?” he hissed. Zorn’s sneer widened.

 

“You owe me, King Vegeta. You owe me the life of your woman. Without me, she would be dead on Lenore by Cold’s hand, and that blue-eyed prince of yours would have never been born.” Zorn tapped the white flower of scar tissue on his upper arm, evidence of Cold’s ki bolt. The same bolt that would have killed his woman all those years ago, if not for Zorn. Vegeta’s hand tightened on Bulma’s shoulder and he hated the boy for it.

He was telling the truth and they all knew it. It was _turash’ya_ , a debt of blood and honor, and he was forced to a horrible impasse.

 

“Damn you, Zorn. Damn you to Hell!” he growled, “either way I chose, I cannot win.” His eyes found Bra’s and held.

 

“Father may not be able to kill you, but we can,” Prince Vegeta said darkly, his hands clenching into fists. He and Kakkarot’s brat took one step toward Zorn in unison.

 

“Stop hiding behind your woman, Zorn!” Turles sneered, “fight us for her, if you think you can.”

 

“I’ll show you a fight; you little whelp, and send to whatever dimension your parents reside in!” Zorn snarled, stepping forward. Turles would have lunged, but Gohan stepped between them. Vegeta frowned, watching his grandson carefully. He had trained hard these past six years, his resting ki was many times higher, and his body thickened with hard muscle. His lavender hair bound in a high ponytail with a sword across his back, he was his father’s son. He had matured from the sweet boy he had been, becoming more of his father, cool and self-possessed.

 

“Stand down, Turles-nissan. I won’t let you hurt Bra’s mate,” he said in his man’s voice.

 

Turles faltered, confusion written on his face. They all knew of the power that slept within the boy, and respected it.  

 

“Gohan,” Rudaiya said softly to her twin, pleading. Their matching blue eyes met and something secret passed between them.

 

“Fine,” Rudaiya said at last, stepping back, pulling Turles with her.

 

“What the hell are you thinking, Gohan?” demanded Prince Vegeta, “you would protect him after all he’s done? He’s the one that nearly killed Trunks-nissan and Sansai-neesan _, your parents!_   Because of him, Turles’ parents were killed along with half the Elites, all of us were beaten within an inch of our lives, Rudaiya kidnapped . . . all because of _him!”_

 

Similar expressions of stony judgment set the faces of the others. But Gohan, Vegeta noted, was unmoved.

 

“Bra loves him,” Gohan said simply. Prince Vegeta snorted contemptuously. His blue eyes found his sister’s, seething with disgust and hatred.

 

“Then she is a fool!” he shouted. Bra’s eyes flashed in anger—and pain. She adored her brother, and his words wounded her.

 

“Vegeta.” he said, uncrossing his arms. His son swallowed any more protestations, glaring murderously at Zorn.

 

“I love him, Geta. He’s only done this one bad thing. He saved Mom’s life. He saved Trunks-nissan’s.” Bra whispered.

 

“Saved him? He nearly killed him!” Sansai growled.

 

“The disc I thrust into your chest, Prince Trunks, we both know it should have killed you. I hesitated, for contrary to what you may believe, I do have honor, and did not want to see you die.” Zorn said quietly, his eyes holding Trunks’. Trunks’ face tightened, and he dropped Zorn’s gaze in silence. Vegeta digested this, replaying what he had seen and what he had been told over and over in his head. Perhaps, the whelp was telling the truth. His woman’s emotions melded with his.

 

 _For her sake, I hope he is telling the truth,_ she said, _Gods, what are we going to do, Vegeta?_

_When I think of something, I’ll tell you,_ he shot back.

 

“You know it too, second class,” Zorn continued, looking now at Sansai, “as his bonded mate, you must.” Sansai paled.

 

The room grew still and quiet again. All eyes swerved to Bra. Had she betrayed their most precious secret? The thought rang in his head and Vegeta hoped that it was a lie.

 

“It was not Bra. I figured it out myself. How else would Sansai have known that Prince Trunks was in danger so quickly? How else would Kakkarot have known that his harpy burned her hand cooking while she was on Perlandra, light-years away? How else would King Vegeta have known his woman was going into labor on Lenore? Humans are a weak race, ki-wise and psychically, there is no other explanation.”

 

They could not refute his logic.                  

 

 “How will we ever trust you?” Goten asked softly, eyes gentle with mercy on Bra.

 

“Yes, how do we know that you will not betray us to those disgusting spiders?” Chi-Chi echoed.

 

“Wait, how would it be bad if the _Sorva_ knew about the bond?” Kakkarot asked with a frown. Vegeta snarled, furious with his damned thick skull.

 

“Think about it, third class. If you knew that the two most powerful of your enemies were bonded—inextricably and fatally—to a race with no power to speak of, what would you do?” Vegeta growled. The thought haunted him and he watched with a mite of satisfaction as it dawned on Kakkarot. In rapid succession he saw fear, regret and determination play on the third class’ features. Fear for his mate, regret that his foolish desire to be One with his mate had put her in such danger, and determination to protect her whatever the cost. Vegeta knew what he felt, for his feelings mirrored his own. He knew Trunks felt the same for Sansai. But with a Super Saiyan for a mate, she had the likeliest chance of survival.    

 

“What do you say, lady Bulma? You have not spoken,” Sansai put in. Vegeta snorted, seeing what she was to say before she said it. His jaw clenched and he studied his daughter, somber and still in Zorn’s embrace. She was, perhaps for the first time, considering the implications of her relationship with Zorn.

 

“Personally, I see that we have no choice but to trust him. Granted, he’s not exactly the kind of son-in-law I wanted, or the kind of husband for Bra, but it’s obvious she loves him. And he did save my life, and Geta’s, and Bra’s for that matter. If I had died on Lenore, Bra would never have been born.”

 

“How do we know that he won’t sic the _Sorva_ on us the instant we turn our backs?” Goten accused.

 

“You can’t be certain,” Zorn said offhandedly, “I could double-cross you, let the _Sorva_ devour you and take the throne with Bra as my queen.”

 

“He doesn’t mean that,” Bra said, speaking up. Her blue eyes studied every angle of Zorn’s face with a loving shine that made Vegeta’s stomach turn.

 

“He wouldn’t do that to my family. He loves me as much as I love him,” she said and Vegeta watched a muscle fire in Zorn’s jaw. _Love,_ he thought blackly, _can overthrow empires and turn the Universe on its head._ Their heads bent together, the two exchanged soft spoken words, and only Vegeta was close enough to hear. 

 

‘You don’t need to do this,’ Bra said.

 

‘I’ll do this and more to keep you,’ he answered. Zorn met Vegeta’s eye and he felt the barest glimmer of respect for him.

 

“My father had a store of _Sorva_ hidden in case the ones in the palace were overwhelmed. I will lead you to them, and help you destroy them.”

 

“It could be a trap,” Prince Vegeta pointed out.

 

“I’m certain it is. But we have a chance to end this war before it has truly begun. We must take it.” Vegeta said.

 

“I’ll go with him.” Gohan volunteered.

 

“And I. There is no way I’m letting Gohan go alone with him,” Rudaiya said.

 

“And I.” Turles echoed.

 

It progressed swiftly after that. It was decided that Bra, Zorn, Gohan, Turles and Rudaiya would travel to—of all places—Lenore, and destroy the _Sorva_. With any luck, they would all return alive.                       


	10. Loss

**Lenore-Sector 5**

 

Daiya wondered at the changes in her twin in the six years they had been apart. He had grown, matured and hardened into a true warrior, a Saiyan prince. She missed the sweet boy he had been, she thought as they slogged through the ankle deep mud on Lenore’s surface.

 

 _The world we live in is unkind to ones such as him, my love._ Turles whispered. Her brother’s sword was drawn, poised between Zorn’s shoulder blades. Gran had given Zorn a scanner not unlike the old dragon radar she had built as a young girl, but this one detected the unique energy signal of the _Sorva_. Its steady pinging was the only sound on this barren hunk of mud lightyears from home. Steadily, the pings grew closer together.

 

“We’re nearly there,” said Zorn. In anticipation, Turles discreetly raised his power level, wary and hateful of Zorn. The screeching pinging escalated until it was one sustained note, and her ears complained. Zorn was on his hands and knees, muttering to himself.

 

“Where is that damned switch . . . ah.” He peeled back a square of turf to reveal a keypad.

 

“Wait, before we barrel in there with our ki blazing, I would like to learn more of my enemy. How is it the _Sorva_ came to be? How did your father gain control over them?” Gohan demanded.

 

At this, Zorn sniggered. The sound was so similar to Tarah’s that Turles tensed beside her.

 

“Control them? No, my father was scared shitless of them. We . . . _bargained_ with them. I don’t know who made them or why, but it was somewhere beyond the Outer Rim, beyond the reaches of even the old Cold empire. Whatever happened, their creator made something with a brain, and soon it wondered why it was taking orders. They are crafted of an alloy that is at least partly organic, like bone or horn, if a piece of the core is intact, they can regenerate, and they can exist indefinitely on whatever energy they consume, they put themselves into a kind of cryo-sleep until they sense a mass of energy fit for consumption.” Zorn’s lips curved in a nasty smile and his eyes flicked from Gohan’s to Daiya’s. 

 

“The energy from your grandfather alone, brats, would be enough to sustain the whole colony for a thousand years. The _Sorva_ have seemed to develop a taste for Saiyan.”

 

Gohan hissed out a breath, grinding the tip of his sword suggestively into Zorn’s armor between his shoulder blades.

 

“Watch your mouth, Zorn.”

 

“But it is possible to eradicate them. Their only advantage is their numbers,” Daiya put in to diffuse the tension. Zorn’s black eyes narrowed.

 

“Yes, princess, and the fact that our energy is like ringing a fucking dinner bell. You forget that the energy it took to kill them very nearly did in your parents.”

 

“We didn’t forget,” Gohan said quietly. Zorn waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

 

“This battle will most likely be decided by the craft-wise, like King Vegeta’s blue-haired whor--”

 

Gohan moved so quickly that even Daiya couldn’t catch it. A millisecond later, Zorn was on his back with Gohan’s foot on his chest and the sword tip hovering beneath his chin, dislodged by the rhythmic pounding of Zorn’s pulse. To his credit, he did not show his fear.

 

“I wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you. Remember that she is Bra’s mother as well as my grandmother,” Gohan warned his low, mellow voice. Brazenly, Zorn flicked aside Gohan’s sword and rose.

 

“Can I say a sentence without being threatened with bodily harm?”

 

“Stop acting like an ass and maybe you will!” Daiya snapped.

 

“Just open the damned chamber so we can kill these things and go home!” Turles shouted. And, mutely for once, Zorn obeyed. The lock disengaged and Zorn’s hand was poised over the handle.

 

“Be ready for a flood. They’ll be hungry after being cooped up so long,” he whispered.

 

“How many are there?” Turles asked. This time, Daiya glimpsed the man Bra loved as he dropped his brazen facade and revealed his humanness and vulnerability.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

 _Shouldn’t we power up?_ Daiya asked her mate.

 

 _As soon as the door opens,_ he replied. She nodded and every muscle in her hummed, poised for the desperate, brilliant satisfaction of a hard-won fight ingrained in her Saiyan blood. She felt fear—such thrilling fear!—racing through every nerve. Zorn threw open the door and took one leaping stride away. He would have sprinted behind Gohan, but a glinting foreleg pierced the meaty portion of his calf. He stood arched back in exquisite agony, mouth opened to emit a soundless scream. Daiya felt his ki dwindle almost to nothing in a handful of seconds, then Gohan severed the seeking foreleg with a terse slice of his sword. Two more crawled from the hole, and Daiya blasted them to ash with a blast. Zorn heaved the door shut and scuttled away, panting.

 

“They know,” he whispered, “they know        !”

 

Zorn’s face was pale and wan, his strong frame nearly trembling. For all his faults, Daiya knew Zorn was a stalwart warrior and for it to have shaken him was a bad omen. A screeching thump resounded from the door and Daiya watched in fascination as the heavy alloy was peppered with projecting dents from the restless occupants below.

 

“That’s not gonna hold them long,” she muttered.

 

“Know what?” Turles growled.

 

“Everything. They drained my mind as well as my ki. The fuckers! I didn’t know they could do that! They know about Bra, about the bond, and . . .” his eyes lifted to Gohan’s face, “about you. You have become their prize. Summon Kakkarot or King Vegeta and get out of here, brat. They want to use you as their puppet! Get--”

 

The door exploded into shards of shrapnel and a colossal torrent of chittering, seething _Sorva_ bubbled up in a fountain. She and Turles leapt into Super Saiyan and began blasting madly. The pillar of them hovered in the musty Lenore air and swiveled toward the huddled forms of Gohan and, from the depths, spoke.

 

**_The young mammals’ energy is bright and strong. We must have them all._ **

****

The monstrous avalanche of them descended, to engulf them and destroy them, and cold needles stabbed through her boots. Daiya’s mouth opened in a soundless scream as her energy disappeared like smoke in the wind. Agony screeched through her body, the edges of her vision blurring to a deadly black. Feebly, she stomped and struck at the clicking legs and chilly metal. Dimly, she heard Gohan howl in denial and felt the vivid torch of his great strength spring to life, exploding higher and higher through all the levels of Super Saiyan and straining for more . . .  

She could no longer feel her arms or legs and, abstractly, she realized she would die without even throwing a blast. An arm of warm flesh and hard muscle wrapped around her waist. It was Kakkarot. He seized her and Turles and phased away. In a blur of color and motion, Daiya found herself on the floor of the main hall of the summer palace on Planet Vegeta. Sucking in air as if drowning and shivering.

 

“Goh--” she stuttered dumbly, reaching for Turles’ hand.

 

“He’s alive, Daiya. Barely. Vegeta’s saved him and Zorn. They are on an uninhabited planet a few light-years from Lenore. I had to get the two of you out,” Kakkarot said, the glimmer of his normally cheerful mien flitting across his face. Daiya slowly rose to her feet and found Gran’s eyes.

 

“We’ll need everything you’ve got.”

<^>

Bulma tightened her capsule belt another notch, fingers grazing over each priceless capsule. Nearly twenty years of work girded around her waist. Maybe she could—no. She needed to be fast, agile. With Zorn spilling the beans about the Saiyan bond to their enemy, she and Chi-Chi would likely be obvious targets. The strongest warriors in the Universe were vulnerable through them.

 

“Do you have everything, lady Bulma? We will not return to Planet Vegeta until the _Sorva_ are destroyed.” Sansai said.

 

_Or there are none of us left breathing._

The unspoken vow hung in the air and Bulma fought down a surge of panic. In the back of her mind, she felt Vegeta, and all his rage and fear at the wounds left upon Gohan and knew the same emotions ravaged Sansai. In the brief seconds they attacked him, they had nearly drained him dry.

 

“Wait, there is one more thing,” Bulma said, gnawing on her lip. Sansai crossed her arms over her chest and, clad in battlesuit, armor, and scouter, especially designed to detect _Sorva_ energy signals, Bulma was smote by a stealthy stab of nostalgia. She looked as she did the first day they met. Bulma laughed inwardly. Was she truly wistful for the days when Frieza was the sum of all their troubles? Shaking herself free of weighty contemplation, she crossed her lab to a panel in the wall.

 

“You’re not gonna like this, Sansai,” she prefaced, and pressed one of the buttons. A ki-concealing shutter opened, revealing a clear case holding a living _Sorva_. Upon sensing Sansai’s tasty level of energy, it burst into furious motion, mandibles chittering and needle-like forelegs stabbing the walls of its cage with maddened ferocity. Sansai uttered a string of curse words.

 

“What the _fuck_? How long have you been keeping one of those _things_ here, a mere level from where my children sleep?” she spat, black eyes glittering in incandescent anger. Bulma felt her temper rise to match.

 

“ _My_ children sleep there as well, Sansai, so don’t get all indignant mother on me. I knew what I was doing. I took extensive precautions. But I had to have a living subject for my testing. Did you expect me to work with the shells you and Trunks blasted to hell? I’ve made some damn good weapons as a result.” Bulma watched as the anger ebbed, replaced with revulsion at the thing in the cage.

 

“I understand. But you are finished with it, yes?” she said.

 

“Ye--” a deafening blast resounded through the small lab, nearly bursting Bulma’s ear drums as Sansai destroyed the _Sorva_ , the cage, and much of the surrounding wall. Sansai emerged from the smoke, her face streaked with soot, grinning smugly. And Bulma couldn’t help but laugh.

<^>

“How the hell can you be laughing at a time like this?” Geta demanded, glaring disapprovingly down his nose at his mother and Sansai-neesan. Anger, fear and the dark thrill of excitement burned in a confused tangle in his belly. This is what he had been training for his whole life. His entire Universe hinged on his mother’s ingenuity. They had seen that with Gohan—Saiyan strength may not be enough this time.

 

The two women immediately sobered. He watched his mother take in his warlike accoutrements, nearly identical to Sansai-neesan’s, save that his armor shone with burnished gold fittings, as was custom for the Prince of Planet Vegeta and the glass of his _Sorva_ scouter was red, not green.

 

“We’re ready. Chi-Chi and I will go in my fastest ship.” Mom said with a hard note to her voice.

 

Geta stifled a smirk. He had been present when his parents began their quarrel. Father adamantly insisted that since Zorn— _damn_ his eyes—had revealed the secret of the bond, she and ‘Kakkarot’s harpy’ should flee to the farthest reaches of the Empire. Sansai was exempted, due to her great strength and prowess as a warrior. In that union, the scales were balanced as far as their survival chances. Mother, equally adamant, argued that her technical skill would most likely be the keystone to their survival. It had been in the past. Frieza . . . Cold, even Broly to some extent, because of the tracking devices that had lead to Daiya’s recovery. Geta’s ears burned at the memory of their snarling insults and passionate appeals. More than once Father had burst into Super Saiyan without consciously trying, irked as he was.

 

Only Kakkarot was foolish enough to try and intercede, and he was immediately rebuffed with enough seething anger from both parties that he slunk from the room, tail firmly between his legs. Pavlovian conditioning, Geta thought wryly, thinking of one of Mother’s lectures. Chi-Chi had trained him well. Geta thought they would remain in a stalemate until the stars extinguished, but Father did something that Geta had never thought he would do.

 

‘Please, woman,’ he had said, in front of everyone. Even an idiot could see the pain and fear tearing at Father. Mom hadn’t been able to form a rebuttal.       

 

Geta softened. This very well could be the last time he saw his mother.

 

“Where will you go?” he asked gently. She must have read the evidence of his thoughts in his face, for she flung her arms around him, smothering him the depth of her love. He stiffened initially, in an instinctive Saiyan aversion to affection, but soon sank gratefully into her embrace. He impressed the soft scent of her hair in his mind—like honey and lilac—the supple strength of her, the fierce, bright intelligence within her mind.

 

“I can’t tell you, baby,” she whispered in his ear, “in case they hurt you as they did Gohan . . .” she broke off and he knew the struggle it took to hold back tears. His own eyes burned at the thought of seeing his loved ones die. She stiffened, and Geta could feel the steel of her resolve.

 

“No. I will not run away and hide on some planet on the far side of nowhere, waiting for news that my children are dead. It’s not fair! If Vegeta thinks he can--”

 

“He fears for you, my lady Bulma. He would surrender to the _Sorva_ and live as their slave in agony for a thousand years if they threatened your life.”

 

Mom flinched at Sansai’s frank appraisal. Geta brushed aside a tendril of blue hair that fell in her face with a gloved hand.

 

“She’s right, Mom. You’re vulnerable. We can’t spare one of us to protect you. Go.”

 

Geta heard an unholy racket approaching, along with Goten’s footsteps. What with their long friendship and the faint connection that lingered after fusion, Geta knew the notes of his ki and the tread of his step. He turned to find his friend carrying his mother over his shoulder. Her screeching imprecations reverberated through Mom’s small underground lab. She punched and kicked at her son, but clad in armor and a stalwart warrior as he was, he didn’t even flinch.

 

“ _Goten_! You better put me down _this instant_!” she screamed, with an emphatic punch aimed at the back of his head. Goten’s face screwed into a suitably sheepish grimace.

 

“I’m sorry Mom, but Dad wanted me to--”

 

“Ugh! Don’t patronize me, son! _Put me down_!” 

 

“ _SHUT UP_!” Geta shouted. She obeyed, mouth gaping like a dying fish.

 

“Go ahead and put her down, Goten. She’s not going anywhere,” Geta ordered.

 

Goten smiled his goofy third class smile and set his mother on her feet. Chi-Chi, red in the face and flustered, quickly tidied her hair and clothing, bright black eyes glaring at the ring of faces, zeroing in on Sansai-neesan’s.

 

“You’d better wipe that smug smirk off your face, Saiyan, or I’ll do it for you,” she growled at Sansai-neesan. Geta arched a brow at the venom in her tone. There was a history there, he knew, shrouded in secrecy and hidden beneath a thin veil of courtesy. Apparently the impending doom of the Universe had worn away her restraint. Geta watched Sansai-neesan stiffen, and Mom’s furtive touch on the arm. Sansai-neesan’s smirk widened.

 

“I’d like to see you try, weak little human. I can stand beside my man in battle.”

 

Mom diffused the threatening fight with a sharp word and together the small group retraced the steps up to the landing bay. Goten hovered a few steps behind his mother, no doubt to insure she didn’t try anything stupid. Geta and Sansai-neesan eyed Mom in a similar manner, she being the more dangerous and crafty of the two. The rest of their family—excluding Father, Gohan and the pus-licking bastard Zorn—waited at the foot of the docking ramp. Gods, it seemed his life was a long string of goodbyes. 

 

Chi-Chi dissolved into tears at the sight of both her son and husband dressed for war, and she clung to them with all the ferocity of a lioness. While the emotional display appalled his Saiyan sensibilities, the strain of grief was familiar. Mom bravely staved off tears, a few defying her will and streaking down her cheeks as she embraced Trunks-nissan and Sansai-neesan, Daiya and Turles and Kakkarot, then lastly, himself.

 

“We’ll get out of this. We have to,” she whispered, “I love you all. Don’t die.”

 

They stood, linked by somber threads of emotion as Mom and Chi-Chi mounted the ramp and took off. As soon as they were out of sight, Geta turned to Goten. The distinctive fan of dark hair that marked both his father and grandfather had been shorn into shorter, triangular spikes that fell in an untidy fringe on his forehead. Geta could find evidence of Chi-Chi’s human blood in Goten, in the shape of the eyes and the pale skin, but he otherwise appeared to be a strong Saiyan warrior. Even with his un-Saiyan soft-heartedness, there was no one Geta would rather have at his side in battle.

 

“Let’s go, Goten.”

<^>

Gohan’s lips were blue, as pale as the lavender hair fanned across the rocky soil of some long-forgotten moon. Vegeta growled a low string of curses, cradling his grandson’s head and offering him a hot drink of restorative tea.

 

“Drink it, Gohan. It will help,” he coaxed gently, terrified by the glassy, half-dead look of his eyes. There was nothing physically wrong with him—the dozens of punctures made by the _Sorva_ had been healed with fluid-filled packs of a similar make as regen tanks. Vegeta had poured some of his energy into Gohan’s limp body, but it dissipated as if filtered through a sieve. None stabilized Gohan’s flagging heartbeat or warmed his clammy skin.

 

Obediently, Gohan set his lips to the rim of the bottle and drank one gulp, then two, before he choked, spraying the amber-hued liquid all over Vegeta’s face.

 

“’Sorry . . . G—grandfather . . .” he rasped, the sharp lines of a warrior softening into the embarrassingly sweet and kind boy he had once been. Vegeta wiped his face on his sleeve and smirked.

 

“Forget it, brat. Rest now. We’re safe for the moment,” he said gruffly. The words had barely left his lips before Gohan’s eyes rolled back. Fear bit deep into Vegeta and he grazed his ki, touching two fingers to the muscular column of his throat. Tension seeped from him. Only asleep. His pulse thudded against his gloved fingertip and his ki, though faint, remained.

 

“What did they do to you, Gohan?” he murmured. From what he learned from Trunks and Sansai, the _Sorva_ typically drained the surface of their ki, sipping up the energy that flowed off of Saiyans like body heat. They had nearly drained Gohan dry—Zorn to a lesser extent, due to the vast difference in strength. Vegeta glanced at Zorn, who lay sprawled where Vegeta had left him, unconscious and unharmed save for his bloody nose. Vegeta scowled. He was lucky to have gotten off with only a bloodied nose! Gods, the _Sorva_ could _think_. And they knew about the bond and understood its gravity.

 

Vegeta gently drew Gohan into a loose embrace, sharing his warmth. The brat was an ice cube. Vegeta reached into the deep, golden wellspring of his power and fed gentle tendrils of energy into his grandson’s body. Gohan made an inarticulate sound of gratitude and Vegeta’s heart winced. While the brat’s injuries took precedence, violent anger flooded him; a dark smirk of promised retribution twisted his mouth. Gohan’s skin warmed, but Vegeta’s energy would not penetrate the core of him, within the shell of the soul to where his ki resided. Through the bond, he saw his woman had landed on a planet far across the Empire, as far from Lenore as humanly possible.

 

“Let’s go. Bulma will be able to help you, brat,” he said.

 

Vegeta shifted his hold on Gohan and carefully laid him over his shoulder. Glaring down at Zorn, he was tempted, sorely tempted to leave him here, on this barren rock, to starve. But, he realized, Bra could use Instant Transmission too, and she would put herself in danger to save this whelp. Vegeta exhaled a breath and fisted his hand in Zorn’s hair.

 

Focusing on his woman’s ki signature, a bright little spark amid the flaming constellations of the others, Vegeta felt the thrill of inertia and the riotous colors of that pocket dimension before his feet touched solid ground on a desert planet—barren save for the capsule house that his woman had pitched. Carrying Gohan and dragging Zorn, he waded through knee-deep sand to the door of the house. His woman opened the door and Vegeta strode inside the island of cool and stillness amid the violent heat and wind of the desert. He released Zorn with a careless motion and laid Gohan gently on the couch.

 

“Is he all right?” Bulma asked, kneeling beside the couch and touching his hair, his face, the round holes peppering his armor and battlesuit. There was horror there, he knew, remembering Sansai in a similar state, and love. Like this, Gohan was almost identical to his father.

 

“The spiders drained him. I tried to give him some of my ki, but it didn’t take. It sapped from him as soon as I gave it.”

 

 _We are ready, Vegeta_. Kakkarot thought to him. Vegeta turned to his woman and took her in his arms.

 

“I love you,” he whispered. With a half-strangled cry, she kissed him. Time stopped with that kiss. Lips and breath, soul and heart melted together with enough love to fill lifetimes.

 

 _Come back to me,_ she ordered him. At last, he backed away and smirked at her, his bonded mate, his queen.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid, woman.”

 

 

 

  

The time for planning, training, even talking was over. The love of battle sang through him, his power burst forth in a torrent of gold as he ascended the three levels of Super Saiyan. Kakkarot did likewise. _You dog my every step, third class,_ he thought without bitterness. Kakkarot may be a dull-witted bumpkin, but he was also his friend. Trunks and Sansai aglow in the second level of Super Saiyan, stood shoulder to shoulder with them. He saw determination and fear mixed in their eyes. Of them all, they were the only ones to face the _Sorva_ before, the only ones to feel the effects of their destructive influence.

 

Prince Vegeta and Goten waited with Bra to usher them in as reinforcements since their power lessened the length of their fusion. Linked as a living chain, Vegeta teleported to Lenore.

Chaos reached out to smother them.

But Vegeta was ready. Thrusting out both hands, he unleashed a blast strong enough to blow dozens to cinders. It was foolish to deplete his energy in such a flagrant display, but it felt good.

 

“Conserve your energy!” he bellowed.

 

As a tight-knit squad, they fought, destroying _Sorva_ with terse bursts of ki. Vegeta felt the sucking pull as the hordes eagerly sipped at the periphery of his aura. A thrusting foreleg shot out to pierce his boot and quick as a striking snake, he reached down and crushed the spider between his hands. His bark of triumph was cut off by needles of pain in his back. Three had crept up behind him and stabbed his back. Raising his aura, he was gratified to feel them overload and explode into a million useless fragments. Vegeta paused, dragging in a deep breath. He was surprised by the lack that simple attack had caused him.

 

He needed to be careful.

 

Vegeta closed one eye, focusing on the soft chirping of his scouter detecting when each _Sorva_ leapt at him. He was insensible to anything but the next enemy, immersing himself totally in the dance of war. His Saiyan blood reveled in it. A raw cry broke his cocoon of concentration and he opened his eyes to see Sansai, a bright star of gold, fly high above the seething mass carpeting the land and then dive, deep into the mass.

 

 _“No!”_ Vegeta cried, leaping forward to stop her.

 

 _Wait, Father! She knows what she’s doing!_ Trunks told him. Vegeta watched, buffeted by the annoying stings of _Sorva_ , eyes riveted to the place where she had disappeared. _What is that damned girl up to?_

A fraction of a second later, vivid blue light detonated from that hole and spread in seething fire a mile wide, a squeaking screech of dying _Sorva_ clawed at the air. Sansai, scorched and grinning in her normal form stood at its epicenter. Laughing, Vegeta grabbed Trunks’ sleeve and phased to the blackened hole.

 

“What the hell was that, brat?” he demanded. Sansai brandished two clear shells.

 

“Bulma gave me these. Extermination grenades. Damn effective,” she explained, brushing ash from her shoulder.

 

“Hell yeah!” Trunks whooped, laughing like a boy.

 

“Do you have any more?” Kakkarot asked with his stupid grin. Sansai deployed a capsule and, bristling with grenades and several others of his woman’s tricks, returned to the fight. Bra phased in Gogeta, the self-named fused form of the two warriors and the glorious battle began anew.

 

Though outnumbered by a million to one, Vegeta dared hope they would win.

<^>

While Bulma bustled about, muttering to herself and fortifying the capsule house with enough explosives to destroy the planet, Chi-Chi nursed Gohan. She stroked his hair, feeling a surge of tenderness. Though this boy was Trunks and Sansai’s son, he had her Gohan’s sweet soul along with his name. Bulma had wrapped him in a thermal blanket, making him look like a mummified king, with his sword and gold-chased armor lying on the green carpet beside her knee. His sleep was troubled, his body jerked and tossed as if warring with a monster.

 

“Gohan?” she whispered, shaking his shoulder, “Wake up, sweetie. Gohan?”

 

His hand moved faster than she could see. With one careless shove, Chi-Chi slammed against the far wall, denting the weak drywall. She opened bleary eyes to find Gohan clutching his head and rocking, as if to contain some great pain.

 

“Stay away from me!” he growled, in a voice quite unlike his.

 

“G—Gohan?” Chi-Chi stuttered, hand fluttering to the neck of her dress as if to still the hammering heart beneath. He was monstrously powerful, even by Saiyan standards, as her Gohan had been. She didn’t know if she could bear it if he died too. A half-strangled cry tore from his throat.

 

“Get Gran! Get her now!” he howled. Chi-Chi hastened to obey, sprinting as fast as she could to find Bulma. She was outside, calibrating some sort of fence.

 

“Bulma, hurry! Gohan’s awake and there is something wrong with him!”

<^>

“Something’s wrong with Gohan!” Bra cried, leaping up from where she hovered in meditation. Daiya looked up at her with an expression of such fear and love that Bra was temporarily overwhelmed by the texture of her emotions, sharp and jagged-edged.

 

“What is it?” Turles asked.

 

“I—I don’t know,” she said, concentrating, “his ki is strangely . . . warped. Fundamentally altered.”

 

“You have to go help him!” Daiya shouted.

 

“I don’t know if I can. Instant Transmission is more draining then you realize. I can’t go there, come back, then make several more trips to ferry out Goten and Geta! Unfused, they aren’t strong enough to stay in the battle. I’d be leaving them to die!”

 

“And if you don’t go, you’ll be leaving Gohan to die! Take me there, and if you run out of energy, I’ll give you some of mine.”

 

“It doesn’t work that way! Instant Transmission doesn’t draw off of ki. It uses . . . something else.” Bra said, chewing on her lower lip. The dread of indecision hounded her. Who did she save? Her nephew or her brother and his best friend?

Thought and emotion streaked across the Universe to her, piercing her. It shattered her resolve into pieces. She must have fainted for a few seconds, for she woke to find Daiya and her mate crouched anxiously over her. She reached up and grabbed their arms.

 

“Let’s go. Gohan is trying to strangle Chi-Chi.”

<^>


	11. Failure

_“Ka-me- ha- me . . . HA!”_ Kakkarot howled, unleashing a torrent of blue energy that destroyed a massive swatch of _Sorva_. Those on edges, however, eagerly devoured the energy, splintering off into copies of themselves. Kakkarot drew in deep lungfuls of air—scorched from ki and acrid with smoke and the sweat of exertion. The third form of Super Saiyan—while intensely powerful—was also incredibly draining. He relaxed, easing back into Super Saiyan 2 to conserve energy.

 

He reached within his dented chestplate and pulled out a silver disc, similar in design to the one Zorn had used to take down Trunks all those years ago. Bulma in her cleverness retooled it into ki repository for each of them. At it center was a large, flawless diamond—gemstones, she found, were able to hold untold amounts of energy without becoming oversaturated. Each of the Saiyans had spent the last six years pouring every spare iota of ki into their disc. Kakkarot held down the button at its center and sighed in relief as energy flowed into him, bolstering his flagging reserves.

 

He stowed the disc and hovered over the landscape of Lenore, watching the battle unfold. Vegeta formed the deadly point of the spearhead, battering and driving, gloriously bright as a Super Saiyan 3. Gogeta and Trunks and Sansai formed the auxiliary edges, battling with incredible strength and heart. Kakkarot’s own heart swelled with love for them all.

 

Periodically, Bulma’s grenades or pulse waves would dispatch wide swaths of their enemy and Kakkarot frowned. The Saiyans of Planet Vegeta were winning. Yes, they were tired and battered, but they were keeping the _Sorva_ at bay. This was not the desperate battle of his father’s visions. Give them the rest of the night, and the _Sorva_ would be defeated. Even as his heart rejoiced at his knowledge, something he couldn’t pinpoint was making him uneasy. Kakkarot reached out his mind toward his best friend and king.

 

_Vegeta!_

 

 _What is it, Kakkarot? I’m a bit busy at the moment._ The scorching brightness of his consciousness was like looking into the sun and Kakkarot smiled despite himself.

 

_Something’s wrong. This is . . . easy._

 

_You’ve sensed it too? What can the little bugs be up to?_

_I don’t know. We should—_

The thought was cut off by a scream resounding inside his head like a detonated bomb. Sickening fear, the choking pressure of hands, pain . . .

 

_Chi-Chi!_

<^>

The first thing she saw when Bra dropped out of Instant Transmission was her twin curled into himself, a few feet from the huddled forms of Gran and Chi-Chi, the former simultaneously healing Chi-Chi and pointing a ki-killer at Gohan, and the latter shivering and coughing. Bra immediately touched Chi-Chi’s forehead, and the fierce Earth woman relaxed, restored by her touch. Daiya approached her brother. Something was terribly wrong. Bra had been right, his ki was warped somehow, the savor of his emotions blocked even by the mysterious bond of twinship.

 

“Gohan?” she began to touch his shoulder.

 

And was promptly shoved away with startling force. She succeeded in stopping her momentum; the weak structure of the capsule house couldn’t take much more of this. His blue eyes met her matching ones with such pain and fear that she was immobilized, transfixed like prey before a predator. _Oh Gohan!_

 

“Stay away! For gods’ sake, get away from me, all of you!” his eyes flew wildly from face to face, latching at last on Gran’s. Then his face spasmed into a macabre grimace, a hollow cry whistling from him.

 

“Shit! Gohan!” Gran cried, ignoring his rabid command and kneeling beside his supine form. Both hands clutched his stomach, tearing away the black fabric of his battlesuit.

 

“Let me see, sweetheart. Let me see . . .” she crooned, stroking his hair. Daiya and Turles knelt to help and together, they succeeded in peeling away his finely made swordsman’s hands. Bra took a place opposite her mother, eyeing Gohan with such a strange look. Like he was some strange and potentially dangerous creature. Daiya was tempted to punch her in the face, but refrained.

 

A fist twisted her innards at the sight of the tautly muscled abdomen distended, jutting sharply in places, the skin stretched to a bloodless white.  Behind her, Turles made an inarticulate sound of sympathy and disgust.

 

“Gods,” Gran whispered, but in prayer or frustration, Daiya couldn’t tell. Gingerly, Bra touched one of the protuberances.

 

“No entry wound. Not shrapnel, then. Maybe . . .”

 

He slapped away Bra’s hands, pushing them all straining against the walls of the capsule house with a pulse of ki. Gran and Bra were knocked unconscious.     

 

 _“_ It’s . . . it’s _inside_ me! Go! _Get out_! I _can’t . . . hold it . . . I—AHHHHH!”_

_“Gohan!”_ Daiya cried, and dove without thinking, shoving the both of them through the wall of the capsule house and out into the howling desert. Gohan’s ki exploded in a nimbus of seething gold, blue threads of electricity circling him as he leapt into Super Saiyan 3 and straining upward for more. His aura melted the sand, scorched the air, creating odd shapes and scents. Shit, not even Grandfather and Kakkarot could ascend from their normal form. Was it _possible_ to reach any higher? How could mortal flesh contain such power? Daiya thought. Her brother knelt, curled around himself, all his focus turned inward to a battle only he could see. _What_ was inside him? _Sorva_? Gods, could they control him?

 

“Fight them, Gohan! You’re stronger than them, I know you are!” she encouraged; wishing there was more she could do for him.

 

“I’m . . . trying . . .” he spat through clenched teeth. His eyes caught hers, searingly green like a living emerald, “if I can’t . . . you’ll have to kill me, Daiya. Don’t let them use me to destroy us. You’ll have to try your best to kill me, understand?”

She wanted to scream that even if the _Sorva_ threatened to tear out her heart, she would not kill her own twin, but cold reason didn’t care for the passions of the heart, and bitter truth said she must. She could do this as a warrior. She could give him a clean death.

 

“I will. I swear.”

 

Whether from the sand or tears, her eyes felt hot and gritty, every muscle and sinew willing Gohan to fight. Her own energy was nothing, if she tried to transfer it to him, it might only feed the _Sorva_. He stifled a grunt, falling to his knees. He spat, gouts of blood and saliva dribbling down his chin. Tears burned to salt and vapor on his face and Daiya’s heart gave a wrenching lurch watching him suffer.

 

“Fight, my brother, my strong one. You can defeat them. Fight my brother, my strong one . . .” she repeated the mantra over and over in Saiyago, as if his victory depended on force of will. His hands fisted in the sand, shoulders quivering. Daiya could feel his ki weaken . . . wobble. Abruptly, he downgraded to Super Saiyan 2 . . .

 

“Don’t give up!” she screeched.

 

Her brave brother heartened to her cry and reached within that well of power that resided in him, ascending with blood weeping from his mouth and clenched fists. Through the bond, Daiya was aware of Turles and Zorn trying to resuscitate Bra. Gods, they could use her power!  

A revolting cracking sound. Gohan’s body arched in eloquent pain, his eyes horribly aware.

His power disappeared, vanished like a mirage. His hair fell slack and lavender, his eyes their normal blue. Fear and sorrow raged there.

 

“Kill me,” he said, reaching a hand to her in desperate entreaty, “Kill me!”

 

Tears flowed unchecked, whipped away by stinging wind. An orb of white ki coalesced in her palm.

 

“I love you, Gohan,” she whispered, and would have fired, but his ki shrank into nothing. He fell slack, boneless amid sand and shards of glass. Daiya crawled to him. In her studies as _kahntor_ , she had heard of Saiyans, who committed honorable suicide to protect their people’s secrets. Their method was unknown, poisons had no effect on Saiyans, and there were no marks on their bodies. Had Gohan discovered it?

 

A ragged howl tore from her lips, a wild cry of loss. The wind abated, and the air smelled of ki and suffering, thick and fetid. The potent, burning life that emanated from Gohan was gone, extinguished like a candle in the wind. Turles and Chi-Chi had come to investigate her scream.

 

“Is he—“ Turles began.

 

Gohan’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Chi-Chi’s throat. In a movement so swift only she and Turles could see, he snapped her neck. The sound was crisp and sharp, like the snap of an icicle. His fingers spasmed so strongly that it pulverized the flesh in a disgusting wrench, nearly tearing her head clean off. Immobilized by shock, Rudaiya watched with that peculiar intense recognition of life’s most awful moments, that Chi-Chi’s black eyes were wide in an expression of perfect surprise, small mouth making a round ‘o.’ Her slack body fell to the ground in a boneless heap, twitching in the throes of death.

 

 _This means that Kakkarot is dead too. Poor Goten,_ thought the small, rational part of her mind.

 

Rudaiya summoned a blast and fired, aiming for Gohan’s heart. With unnatural speed, the same hand that had killed Chi-Chi deflected the blast back to her. It took her high on her left shoulder. Her honed reflexes saved her and she pivoted, the blast glanced off to one side. Meant to be a kill shot, it seared through armor, battlesuit and skin, leaving a throbbing, bleeding welt on her arm. Turles snarled and fired a few more, only to be deflected in a similar manner. 

 

Gohan rose from the ground and Daiya screamed in horror. The protuberances she had seen in Gohan’s belly were _moving_ , spreading into a distinctly spider-like shape, just below his rib cage. His legs were off-kilter, stance limp and sprawled. His arms lifted in awkward jerks, his head lolling back, lavender hair obscuring his face. With a twitch, his head sank forward; eyes rolled back to bloodshot white. Blood, tears and spit shone on his face, vestiges of humanity. This . . . this _thing_ was not her brother. It moved like a poorly crafted puppet, a malfunctioning robot.

A voice emanated from it in a horrible parody of Gohan’s sweet baritone, its head swiveling in twitching spasms towards Chi-Chi’s limp body, seemingly independent of the muscle and bone composing a mammalian neck.

 

**_Such delicious energy from the two-lives-together. This body is very strong. We must be careful not to squander the others._ **

 

It lifted his hand, face tensing into a gruesome array of expressions until it settled on a macabre imitation of a smile. On her twin’s face, it was obscene. The long fingers twitched curling and extending in ragged spasms, like a dying spider on a collector’s board.

 

**_This mammal’s energy is very good. It will feed us for a very long time._ **

 

Daiya powered up. She had to kill it. For Gohan’s sake. This thing didn’t know how to operate a Saiyan body. She could try! Turles did likewise.

 

“Why don’t you try and get a taste of us?” she challenged.

<^>

“Kakkarot!” Vegeta howled, watching him fall. Using Instant Transmission, he snatched the third class from the sky and landed on a rocky outcropping. He could feel the life draining from him in the deadly consequence of the bond. Heat burned in his face, his eyes gritty. Dimly, he heard a tide of _Sorva_ rise around them, greedy for the energy seeping from Kakkarot. Sansai and Trunks fought them off and Vegeta felt their anguish reverberate through the air in a silent scream of grief. Gogeta was on the far side of the planet, and Vegeta felt him—them?—nearly tearing a hole in the ozone in their haste to reach his—their?—father’s side. 

_Don’t die, Kakkarot, my only friend._ Something inside him whispered.

 

“Vegeta . . .” Kakkarot wheezed, his lips quirking in a stupid grin. Idiot. Smiling even on his deathbed.

 

“Stand up, fool. The fight’s not over yet. I won’t let you slack off,” he growled. The words quavered and Vegeta clenched his jaw. Kakkarot choked out a gasping laugh. His lips were tinged blue.

 

“You’ll have to win this fight alone, my friend. I have to hold on for Goten . . . help me up.”

 

Vegeta propped him up against a shelf of rock, and looked up at the blazing gold star of Gogeta. He downgraded to normal as he landed. His hair was Vegeta’s upward spike of black, with one piece hanging determinedly in his face. His eyes were Vegeta’s blue, his skin Goten’s pale human hue. With an explosion of white light, they separated. Goten crawled to his father’s side, weeping unabashedly. Prince Vegeta bent and picked up Kakkarot’s energy disc. Vegeta laid a hand on the torn battlesuit covering the boy’s strong shoulder, stopping him from moving toward Kakkarot’s prone form.

 

“It’s too late for him. His bonded mate has died. All he can do is follow.”

 

Grief ravaged the boy’s features, so similar to his own. His mother’s blue eyes shone with unshed tears and he pressed the release of the disc, flinging it into the seething mass of _Sorva_. They fell upon it with chittering eagerness, and in one terse motion, Prince Vegeta blew a massive swath of them to Hell.   

 

Vegeta took a step back from Kakkarot whispering to a sobbing Goten, giving them a private farewell. He lifted his gaze to Trunks and Sansai battling off the _Sorva_ single-handedly—again. Without Kakkarot . . . gods, could they win?

 

Behind him, Goten’s grieving howl told him that Kakkarot had passed. Vegeta’s jaw clenched in wild grief and summoned the will to fight.

<^>

Bra woke in groggy stages, color and sound, thought and emotion, sensation and perception rattling around in her skull like bees in a bottle. Disorienting, chaotic. Fragmented images of blood, fear and battle.

 

A damned coat hook. That was what she’d struck her head on. With a negligent twitch, she healed the bones of her skull, skin and vessel, leaving nothing more than blood-matted blue hair to testament her injury. Her knee had twisted beneath the dead weight of her body and she healed also the torn ligament and inflamed flesh. Bodily pains repaired, she caught back the threads of her power, drawing them back into her own mind until it was only the quiet rhythms of her own thoughts she heard. She was suddenly aware of Zorn cradling her, stroking her face and urging her to wake. She opened her eyes and seeing his face, battered and smeared with mud and blood, was caught by a warm rush of love.

 

“Thank the gods,” he whispered with breathless sincerity, “You have to help them, Bra! The _Sorva_ , they’ve taken control of Gohan! He killed Kakkarot’s woman!”

 

She stared at him for a moment, the words too grave to make sense. Chi-Chi . . . and Kakkarot _gone_! Bra sat up straight, her power reaching. Turles and Daiya fought bravely, but their power was a match light compared to the forest fire of Gohan. Or, what had once been Gohan. It was true; she could sense the _Sorva_ ’s cold, inanimate energy within him, wielding the elegant grace of her nephew’s body clumsily.

 _He was still in there!_ she realized. She could still sense the savor of Gohan’s sweet spirit. If she could only get close . . .

 

She leapt up, only then noticing her mother, forgotten amid all the confusion. A quick graze found her unconscious, injured only by a few superficial cuts and bruises. Bra brushed her cheek, healing those and her mother started awake. Bra inserted the most pertinent facts into her head and watched her blue eyes widen in horror, grief and fear.

 

“Do you have anything that can get me close undetected?” Bra asked. Mom rose with the same lithe efficiency, setting aside emotion by sheer force of will to contend with the problem at hand. She deployed a few capsules and shoved a few objects into her hands, muttering and cursing to herself. She pointed to one object, looking like an Earthling pager. Bra clipped it to her belt.

 

“Invisibility cloak and ki damper. I doubt the goddamned spiders can sense ki, but use it anyway,” she said her voice quavering slightly, she pointed to a something like a flashlight, “Stasis-beam. Point and click,” she demonstrated with her thumb.

 

“Never tried it on a Saiyan. His super-speed might be too much for it.”

 

Mom produced another device, a tiny syringe.

 

“If you can get close enough, use this. The same nanites I used to kill Frieza, designed for _Sorva_. Jab hard, his skin’s thick, it could bounce off.”  The last object, Bra recognized. A ki-killer. She thrust it at Zorn.

 

“Make yourself useful. Don’t hit Daiya or Turles or we are definitely fucked,” she said, her tones as cold and smooth as ice. Bra activated the cloak and burst into the sky. Gohan in his normal form was fighting off Daiya and Turles handily, though looking grotesquely unnatural, jerky and awkward.

 

Bra dove forward, stasis-beam at the ready, while simultaneously reaching stealthily across the mental plane to alert Daiya and Turles of her whereabouts. Zorn flew from the remnants of the house, firing madly with the ki killer. What had once been Gohan batted them away with a laugh. One deft swipe of his hand ricocheted one into Turles. Bra felt his ki extinguish and the echo of Daiya’s distress.

 

 _Shitshitshitshit! Fucking idiot! Come on, this has to work!_ Bra heard her mother think, pouring the full fury of her genius into a small object in her hands. Bra probed at Gohan’s body with her mind, searching for the remnant of his soul. Hand poised on the beam, she found him and was smote with distilled anguish, pain refined to a wicked edge, tearing into her with gleaming malice, echoing in her head like rattling screams.

 

**_BRA!!!_ ** _Kill me, please!!!_

 

His anguish gave her away. Bloodshot blue eyes pinned her in place, and she was frozen by the utter wrongness of it, this _thing_ that had once been human. Bra fired the stasis beam, but was fractions of seconds too slow. She saw his hand lift and she instinctively yanked them both away with Instant Transmission—winging toward the blistering energy of her father.

 

So used to the shock and wonder of those who traveled with her brief seconds of travel, she was unprepared for the _Sorva_ -Gohan’s attack. His hand darted out, groping for her neck. She dodged, keeping a dogged hold on his tattered battlesuit. It occurred to her that she could simply let go.

She could let him go and he would drop back into time again, and suffocate in space. Her fingers loosened on his clothing as a blast sang an inch past her left ear.

 _No!_ she thought, _This thing has his body and Gohan is still fucking in there! If Papa can distract him for only a minute, maybe I can get him out!_  

 

Her papa’s ki blazed bright nearby and Bra struggled to simultaneously break whatever shackled Gohan’s spirit, stay in Instant Trasnmission, and avoid getting blasted. Damn, if only she could bend the _Sorva’s_ will! She burrowed through the layers of ice and steel that separated them, very nearly overwhelmed by the agony and despair radiating from him like a pulsing heart. Whatever mental block stymied her gave, very slightly. _Yes-yes-yes!_ That was it! Bra pushed the full brunt of her strength at the weak point. It bent a fraction, then another.

 

 ** _“Gohan! Help me! Try and break free!”_** she exclaimed. She felt him try, but without ki, it was a vain effort.

 

 _Bra, look out!_ he cried.

 

She didn’t see the blast coming until it was too late. Pain exploded in her chest and she dropped into time again on Lenore. Bra quickly sealed off the pain receptors in her brain. It would buy her a handful of seconds, maybe she could heal . . . her fingers brushed the gaping hole in her chest.

_Too late._

Life was ebbing away from her. She looked up to see her papa’s green eyes, wide in horror and pain. She wanted to warn him, to tell him she loved him, but the only words she could muster were: “I’m sorry, Papa.” The last thing she heard was her father shouting her name.

<^>

Anguish echoed from Vegeta, deep and visceral. For one moment, they clung to each other in the stillness of the bond, one in their grief. Then what had once been Gohan lunged forward and Bulma cried out, shouting that the _Sorva_ had taken control of him. And Vegeta fought his own grandson.

 

Tears slid down her cheeks unchecked, but she refused to give in to the impulse to howl and tear her hair. There was work to be done.

 _Focus on the problem, damn it!_ She thought viciously.

Her hands shook on the tiny threads of circuitry and she fisted her hands and let out a keening wail to release some of the building pain.

_My baby . . . oh my sweet baby . . ._

 

“No! Oh gods, _no_!” Zorn cried. Bulma looked up to see tears streaming down his cheeks and into his beard. It pierced her heart. He loved her. This cold, fiercely proud warrior had loved her daughter. And now she was dead. Bulma was dimly aware of Turles and Daiya weeping quietly together, before she snapped her attention back to the small sphere in her hands. It was complete. She knelt beside the hexagonal window erected in the kitchen of the capsule house. Almost done. A quick splice and solder . . . there!

 

A smile tried to lift her face, but failed with a weak twitch. The sphere she had built had originally been an improvement on a ki moon, it was only luck that she had even had it on her belt. With Gohan as he was, all her _Sorva_ weapons were thrown out. Her best bet was to give more power to the free Saiyans—Vegeta most of all.

Now all she had to do was transport it across the galaxy . . .

She flicked on the window, and was gratified to see a whirling pinwheel of iridescent color undulate within the frame. It worked.

 

“Daiya, Turles, Zorn, I need your help. This is a sort of teleporter. But its energy cells were damaged in the fight. I need you to blast this portal with all the energy you can. We’re trying to get it to Vegeta and the others on Lenore. It will make them stronger.”

 

Zorn’s flat black gaze held hers. Bitterness firmed the line of his mouth.

 

“Won’t it strengthen Gohan too? He’s stronger than even King Vegeta.”

 

“It might. But so far he hasn’t transformed. My guess is that the _Sorva_ are too busy gobbling up his energy to waste any with a transformation.” Bulma said icily.

 

“So you’re gonna risk our lives and the fate of the Universe on a _guess_?” he challenged.

 

“Have you got a better idea? Or would you prefer to have them pick us off one by one?” she demanded shrilly. Zorn opened his mouth to say more when Turles—freshly rejuvenated from the ki-killer beam—unleashed a wave of red energy into the portal. Daiya caught her eye and shrugged, joining her mate in a steady outpouring of ki. Bulma blessed them both. They trusted her. Zorn’s words cast the situation in sharp relief. The fate of the Universe rested in her hands. She would help them win . . . or she could kill them all.

 

“This better work,” she muttered to herself.

<^>

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brilliant hexagon of white light appear above the shelf of rock where Kakkarot lay. Sansai saw it too, and seeing that it was not an enemy, returned to her battle. She was exhausted, the golden aura of Super Saiyan had long faded away, she maintained the form by sheer force of will. Fighting without the near-boundless reserves of Father and Kakkarot, without the intermittent rest of Geta and Goten, both of them had exhausted their ki discs.

They fought now on nothing but rage.

Rage and a terrible pain.

Kakkarot . . . Chi-Chi . . . Bra . . . . and Gohan. Friends, sister, _son_.

Their son—their brave, bright boy had been taken over by these greedy, soulless monsters!

 

Trunks hovered horizontally in the air; face toward the earth, now only a confused jumble of silver bodies and stabbing legs. His arms burned as he mustered ki. A vivid golden torrent of destructive light fell like a lightning bolt from heaven, exploding outward like the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb. The small, shrieking cries of dying spiders was music to his ears. His beam’s twin appeared a few feet away, a mirroring savagery written on his mate’s features. Inside, she raged and wept and screamed at the tragedy of their loss.

 

 _Trunks!_ His father’s voice sang through the dark threads of his thoughts, _Your mother made an artificial moon and teleported it here. Activate it and maybe it will give me the power to end this._

 

_You will not end my son, Father. I’d kill you myself._

 

Anger lashed at him, impatience and bone-deep anguish to match his.

 

 _You think I_ want _to kill him? Would you sentence him to an eternity of pain, and the knowledge that he killed everyone he ever loved? I will give him a Saiyan prince’s death, and save your sorry carcass while I’m at it! Now DO AS I SAY!_

“Shit.” He muttered under his breath, looking to Sansai, who had heard it all. The indecision was clear on her face, the horror and agony.

 

“What would you have me do?” he asked gently. She looked over his shoulder at the blurred silhouette of his father locked in intense battle with their only son.  Gogeta was trying to aid him, but to little avail. As he watched, the two separated. Burning ki as they were, the fusion barely lasted ten minutes. His heart seized as Geta was pierced in the shoulder by a _Sorva_.

Gods, he couldn’t watch his brother die too!

The wave of fear passed as Goten tore the spider apart with his bare hands. As long as one drew breath, he would protect the other.  

 

“Help King Vegeta. It’s all we can do for him,” she whispered, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. Tears streaked from her green eyes and he ached to hold her. Instead, Trunks nodded once, a sharp, crisp jerk.

So be it.

 

Sansai covered his flight, blasting the tiny bastards to bits when they rose to drink from him. The sphere lay in a scorched ring of earth near Kakkarot’s body. His face looked so peaceful . . . 

 

A spider crept up from beneath the shade of a rock, forelegs poised delicately over the brawny strength of Kakkarot’s arm. Disgusted, Trunks drew his sword and sliced it into tiny pieces. Enemy dispatched, Trunks thrust his sword into the rocky soil and began to kneel, only to have his legs give out, and fell the rest of the way to the ground. Drawing in a couple of sustaining breaths, he began to power down, then thought better of it. If he released the power now, he might not be able to raise it again. Trunks surveyed the sphere with trembling hands. On the outside, it was technically simple: a silver sphere dotted with mirrors and one large red button. Trunks breathed a prayer of thanks for his mother’s technological savvy.

 

Trunks pressed the button and the sphere shot off into the murky sky. He watched its progress and was nearly blinded by an explosion of greenish white light. Immediately, his body hummed with energy, the feral quickening of the moon sinking into blood and bone. The quick-burn impulse whispered to him and he saw Geta and Goten begin to transform. Good. Maybe the _Sorva_ couldn’t drain the _oozaru_ energy. Sansai would not change, but converted the rabid impulse to power.

 

Trunks yanked his sword free and cut a glance to the dueling pair. His father had already transformed, his golden fur standing on end as he roared. The sound echoed in defiance and challenge to the puny enemy at his feet. Fiery blasts issued from his fanged maw, massive fists crushing stone to dust. What had once been his son rose into the air, surrounded by the diffused nimbus of artificial moonlight.

 

**This energy tastes . . . _wonderful_! We must have more! **

 

“Oh no you don’t,” whispered Trunks, hefting his blade. He released the power he carried to wearily, his hair failing slack and lavender around his face. The burning strain in his muscles abated, his body sighing in relief. A smile touched his lips, stretching the scar on his cheek. Sansai touched his mind briefly, alarmed by his sudden drop in power. He reassured her with a word.

 

_I have to cut off Gohan’s tail to give Father a fighting chance. I have to sneak up on him._

Her love and support swelled up, washing away the wounds of his spirit. Trunks tightened his grip on his sword and sprinted across the plateau, leaping into the mass of _Sorva_ carpeting Lenore’s soil. The bodies of the Sorva crunched under his boots, and he felt the questing stings of swift forelegs pierce his calves, sipping his energy before he sliced them off. Breath whined in his lungs, the breath of time between his heartbeats seemed to stretch on and on. 

 

He looked up, watching the transformation dispassionately, watching the necessary twisting and cracking of bone and tissue to accommodate the power. Then Geta and Goten stomped and swatted at him, knocking the changeling into the dirt a few yards from Trunks. _Sorva_ -Gohan was too intent on the changes the moon wrought on his form and energy to notice him. Mustering his flagging strength, Trunks lunged, slicing off the brown tail an inch or so from the root. He had time to feel a bright surge of satisfaction before he saw Goten’s giant foot hurtling down at him like a meteor.

 

 

 _Trunks! TRUNKS! Wake up, damn you!_ His mate’s voice rattled around in the empty caverns of his mind, and he suddenly felt a hot bolt of energy pierce his chest and he drank as eagerly as a _Sorva_ , feeling the warmth fill the crushed pockets like water into a balloon. He opened his eye to see his wife, smeared with blood and soot, streaked with tears. He tried to smile for her, but failed miserably. Gods, his whole body hurt. He became aware of an insistent, battering thought and realized it was Goten, who radiated concern and sheepish regret.

 

_Forgive me, Trunks-nissan. I gave Sansai-neesan my energy disc and my papa’s Senzu._

 

Trunks eagerly accepted the bean, and mentally thanked Goten. He knew what it cost him to surrender his father’s dying benediction.

 

“What’s happening . . . Father and Go—“

 

“See for yourself,” Sansai said, pointing. Newly restored, Trunks leapt to his feet. _Sorva_ -Gohan looked battered, having been clipped by Goten’s foot, but he leapt nimbly enough, dodging the swipes of Geta’s fists. And Father . . .

 

He could feel the clean, sharp rage and fiery intelligence emanating from his gold-furred form, along with something more. Something strong enough to shift the world. His glassy red eyes lifted to moon orb.

 

 **“BUL—MA.”** The voice was rough and jagged like gravel, so immense it was as if the sky vibrated into speech, but recognizable.

 

“Vegar above,” Sansai whispered solemnly, green eyes glued to the slender ribbons of gold energy whirling slowly around Father’s _oozaru_ body.

 

Time suspended as he began to . . . _shrink_.

 

Trunks thought for a moment that the moon had faltered, or his tail had been damaged, but the tidal wave of his ki washing over him dispelled any notion of injury. His heart trembled with awe and fear.

Too much . . . too strong . . . gods, how could one body contain that power? A reddish afterimage burned into his retinas, a humanoid figure outlined in white gold light. With an explosion of red and gold aura, a new warrior stepped from the god’s forge. Trunks sighed in relief, recognizing the face as his father’s. But very, very different than the arrogant, grumpy man who sparred with him a few days ago.

Was it days, or decades, centuries since they were all alive and together? 

 

His black hair stood up in its normal vertical spikes, but then rioted off in different directions. The angles of his face were the same, but his eyelids reddened, and his eyes were an intense gold hue. The gold fur blushed to a vivid scarlet, densely carpeting his torso, save for the naked muscles of his chest. The baggy black gi pants he was wearing had transformed as well, to a dull gold belted with blue, his boots black.

 

“Super Saiyan . . . 4, I suppose,” Sansai said incredulously. The bright gold eyes touched each of them, and Trunks shivered at their fiery perusal. At last, they settled on _Sorva_ -Gohan. 

 

“Let us begin,” he rasped. A soft sound like a giggle rang from _Sorva_ -Gohan, a sound of delight, Trunks thought.

 

**You are very strong. Stronger than this young one. We want you to feed us.**

Several things happened at once.

 

One, Gohan’s chest began to bulge and swell, then exploding in a torrent of blood and bits of flesh as the _Sorva_ leapt at Father. Two, another enterprising _Sorva_ stabbed Trunks’ back, melting inside him before he or Sansai could react. He felt it slide like quicksilver through his veins before coalescing in a steely knot just beneath his heart. He clenched his hands over his belly and let out an anguished wail as it tore through flesh and bone, ki and soul, tearing all into jagged bloody pieces.

Third, a white blast tore through his chest, erasing the gnawing pain with a cleansing heat. Trunks opened his eyes to find his son’s blue eyes looking at him from the ground where he lay.

 

_I would rather kill you myself than see you as their slave, Papa, Mama. I love you._

Death took all three of them with a soft sigh.

<^>

“It was chaos after that,” the Saiyan girl said hollowly, hands cupped around a mug of truly awful coffee left over from the morning before. Kami, none of them had so much as moved as she told her story. Vegeta stood tense and twitching beside her, filled with anger or excitement, Bulma wasn’t sure.

 

Rudaiya swallowed another mouthful without tasting it, her eyes lost in the evils she had seen. Bulma scanned the ring of beloved faces, seeking matching expressions of mixed horror and pity. They were all there: the Sons, even little Pan asleep in her mother’s arms, Yamcha, Puar, Oolong, Master Roshi, Piccolo, Tien, Choutzu, Krillin, 18 and Marron. All alive because of the Bulma who was brave enough to defy the Kais to save her world.

 

“Without Bra or Kakkarot to ferry them out, Goten and Geta were soon overwhelmed. Grandfather was all that was left. Even with his great power he couldn’t . . . there is no way he could have defeated them alone. I begged Gran to send me there, so I could fight—and die—with the rest of my family. She wouldn’t let me.” a bitter smile twisted her lips, those haunted blue eyes lifting to meet Bulma’s, “She bashed the teleporter and shot both me and Turles with the ki-killer. Somehow I fell asleep and awoke on Supreme Kai’s homeworld. He said to me, ‘ _This is not how it should be. Go, young Saiyan, and undo the horror of this day.’_ Then he gave me the machine.”

 

The silence that followed was as thick and forlorn as the cooling corpses of this poor girl’s family. A mad light entered her eyes and she looked from face to face, lingering on Trunks’ with such incredible love. Her voice, low and hoarse from a long night’s retelling, lowered further in deep emotion.

 

“That’s why I must have the dragonballs! Help me restore my world!”


	12. A Price

The force of her purpose burned like a fever through her blood and the voices of her loved ones called out to her. Their deaths were still so vivid, so gruesomely real. It was this world that was a dream, she thought, looking at her father’s face young and unscarred, blue eyes so warm and guileless beside her. This Trunks had had a far different life than her Papa.

_Oh Papa . . ._

Gods, her father, mother and twin brother dead in one stroke. The chain of family severed one link at a time. Her gaze—adoring and grieving—made him uncomfortable and she tore herself from him, resting instead on the short, prickly version of her beloved grandfather. She knew only the barest facts of his life—Planet Vegeta was destroyed when he was a child, all those years spent as Frieza’s slave. Defeated here by Kakkarot of all people—his only friend in the world! It was absurd that this half brain-dead fool was the first Super Saiyan in a thousand years! The Kakkarot of her world was . . . odd, and strong, but not this goofy man-child.

 

The younger version of Gran had settled them all down for a meal on a long table outside. The sun was beginning to set and the dusky colors reminded her of Planet Vegeta. The air was sweet and cool and birds sang sleepy songs as the sun sank. Earth was indeed a beautiful planet. They were all here: Grandfather, Gran, young Papa, Bra . . . Kakkarot and his two sons, and all the humans that Gran had told her stories about as a child. One was gratingly absent. _Geta._ This timeline had no Geta. Goten was instead companions with young Papa. How odd. She felt the touch of her grandfather’s gaze, dark and cool like the embracing chill of a desert night.

 

“What is it, father of my father?” she asked in Saiyago. The corner of his mouth tipped up into the warm smirk she loved so much.

 

“You are a puzzle, daughter of my blood. I have not spoken in this tongue outside my dreams for thirty years. You know more of our people than I.” Rudaiya returned the perfect reflection of his smirk, tinged with love and mischief.

 

“That’s not true, Grandfather. Why, you were teaching me the finer points of the warrior’s code not a week ago.” she felt Gran’s curious look, and nodded pleasantly to her. Rudaiya turned her attention to the young version of her papa.

 

“Your life here is good, Ou-sama. Your children have grown up strong and happy. Don’t waste it on regret.” Surprise flashed across his face, followed by a wary sort of approval.

 

“You truly are a princess of Planet Vegeta, youngling. I will do all in my power to restore your world for the sake of all that should have been.”

 

Rudaiya frowned. Yes, she supposed the world where his birthright—both to the throne and the power of a Super Saiyan was not usurped would be what should have been. But then again, if Bardock had not seen his visions and the Saiyans were what they had been—mindless warmongers without knowledge or culture, he would have never seen fit to love Gran, or even understand what that was. Fate had broken him, but had restored him in his humanity, and he was now richer than she. Rudaiya drank a swallow of soda, reminded painfully of all her spars with Geta and Goten. They were both dead now . . .

She was a tool of fate too. Was this her breaking?

She didn’t belong here! She was Saiyan by birth and upraising. What about Turles? The fact he was still alive was her last fragile thread to sanity. Would she ever see him again?       

 

The food smelled delicious and it was only when the serve-bot set a plate in front of her when she realized how ravenously hungry she was. She attacked the food like a rabid snow lion on a cho-deer carcass.

 

“The best way to heal a Saiyan heart is with a good meal, hmm?” Gran whispered from her left, teasingly nudging her shoulder. Daiya’s heart swelled with love for her.

 

“Well that settles it. Look at her eat—she _is_ Saiyan!” joked one of the humans, the scarred man called Yamcha. Rudaiya tensed, disliking being a butt of a joke, but relaxed at the easy sound of their laughter. With the ugly scars she bore from the past few days, life’s lighter emotions felt foreign, but entirely welcome.

 

She smirked across the table at Kakkarot’s firstborn, her brother’s namesake. His power was like her Gohan’s, warm, bright and kind, like the sun. He bounced a babe on his knee, a girl with a neat cap of dark hair and darkfire eyes, his daughter Pan. The knot of tension that she carried in her belly slowly dissolved under the gentle persuasion of fine food, safety, and the warmth of familiar faces. While she was no longer a princess of Planet Vegeta, she was accepted, absorbed in this benevolent organism.

Weariness settled over her like a wet blanket and she leaned against the cushioned back of her chair. She would close her eyes, just for a moment, to rest.

Instantly, she was asleep.

<^>

He had much to think on. A large part of him wanted to fly off to one of Earth’s lonely places to mull over all he had been told. The girl’s tale was incredible. If she had not had her grandmother’s blue eyes and a Saiyan tail, he would have struck her down as a fakir and scum. But she stood like a princess of their race, and greeted him in Saiyago as ‘Grandfather.’ The idea was an uncomfortable one; the girl looked to be Trunks’ age. The brat watched her covertly as he helped his mother, with a mixture of pity and fascination.  

 

The noisy, irritating gaggle of Kakkarot’s assorted hangers-on had finally left, and his woman paused from her work and brushed the girl’s ebony hair tenderly from her brow. The girl’s slender eyebrows, like neat arches of ink, drew together slightly, then relaxed deeper into slumber. Remembering his years in Frieza’s army, he hoped her dreams were pleasant. Often, sleep was the only escape.

 

“We must tell her,” he said. His woman met his gaze, and he was met with the imagined look upon her blood-caked, soot-smeared face when she was told their children were dead. She broke the vision by gnawing on her lower lip in indecision.

 

“It will break her heart, Vegeta. You heard her, she’s half-crazed with grief as it is. I don’t know what would happen if we told her that the dragonballs are inactive. Let me talk to Dende first. Maybe he can contact his friends on Namek.”

 

“That is no guarantee, woman, and you know it. The Namekian dragon can only wish back one person at a time. How will that help her?” Vegeta snapped, feeling a deep surge of anger at the Namekians, the dragons, and the Universe at large. The girl’s situation was so similar to his. He knew that the denial of her wish would result in unbelievable rage and hatred that ground the softer, better side of herself to dust. He had nearly been consumed by his own.

 

“What else can we do? Supreme Kai sent her here. That has to mean something.”

 

“What about the second half of the riddle?” Trunks interjected, crunching into an apple. Vegeta frowned and folded his arms across his chest.

 

“Explain.”

 

Trunks grinned, eyes bright with discovery.

 

“The riddle Supreme Kai told Future You, Pop. ‘ _In the darkest hour, two will be one and the sun will light the way.’_  The first part came true: Goten and Geta fusing. But what about that bit about the sun?”

 

“Good point, Trunks,” Bulma said.

 

“It could mean anything;” Vegeta muttered dourly, “That damned Kai hangs lives by his riddles!”

 

“We’ll figure something out. I’ve only just met her but . . .” Bulma’s eyes rested gently on the girl’s hunched form, dressed in baggy Earthling clothes to replace her crumbling armor.

 

“But I love her.”

 

Vegeta steeled himself against the softer emotions. He had leapt into battle in revenge for the girl’s father. He didn’t dare invest yet more of his heart into her family.

 

“Come. We need to pay a visit to this mudball’s green guardian,” he growled.

<^>

Time was meaningless. Reality was an illusion. The Guardian of the Earth found the cool, still place within his mind and focused on the tenants Guru had taught him as a child on Namek. While Guru had faded from this world, Dende could still hear his gravelly voice in his inner being whenever he meditated.

 

_Open yourself to the Universe, Dende. The good and the bad. All exists in harmony._

 

Dende reached out with his mind, feeling the pulsing life from the world below him. He had thought he had felt a disturbance, some strange warping in the net of energy that floated in the living air, but time ebbed and shifted in his meditation. It could be past or future that he felt, as well as present. The image of lavender-haired young man with wild blue eyes appeared in his mind’s eye. The boy from the future with a terrible past.

Trunks.

 

Why was it he saw Trunks? His fate had been resolved years ago, and the last Dende knew, he had defeated the androids and settled down. The Trunks of this time was not in danger either. While sometimes caught in good-spirited high-jinks with Son Goku’s son, it was nothing life-threatening. There was very little that could kill a Super Saiyan. Dende pushed away these irrelevant musings and hummed a long, low note, the chant calming his turbulent thoughts. Peace washed over him as he felt the Earth’s contentment. Yes, there were pockets of strife, it was inevitable with creatures as ruled by their emotions as humans, but overall, the Earth was in harmony, the dark nightmare of Buu gone. Shenron rested in the heavens, the dragonballs inactivated, for the moment.

 

The Guardian of the Earth’s antennae twitched at the stealthy whisper of slippers. Mr. Popo was bustling about the Lookout, tending his beloved flowers. That too, was peaceful and productive. So _why_ was he finding it so difficult to concentrate? Stifling a low sound of frustration, Dende pushed his senses outward, beyond Mr. Popo and the birds nested in the Lookout, beyond Korin and Yajarobe to . . .

 

Dende fell hard onto his rear as the narrow thread of concentration that kept him levitating snapped. Vegeta, Trunks, and Bulma were tearing through the air at a blistering pace for the Lookout. Two circles of purple swelled in his cheeks in embarrassment and he quickly stood, grasping his staff and straightening his robes.

 

“Mr. Popo, would you please put on some tea? We have guests,” Dende asked and the round, black face creased into a smile. He delighted in visits.

 

“I will, Dende. Who do we have the pleasure of hosting?” Dende smirked.

 

“Vegeta, his wife and son.” To his credit, Mr. Popo’s expression of joy did not falter, but his apprehension was palpable as he set aside his basket and pruning knife to prepare tea—and food, no doubt. Saiyans were always hungry. 

 

In years past, there had been a strong commonality between Dende and Mr. Popo: both of them had a sneaking fear of the grumpy Prince of Saiyans. He always seemed hovering on the edge between good and evil, and that had proved true during the Buu disaster. Dende’s eyes closed, remembering the tidal wave of anguish as thousands of lives were snuffed out in one blast at the World Tournament.

But he had changed and Dende more than anyone knew the depth of it. On that barren battlefield before sacrificing himself, Dende had heard Vegeta’s final words, of love and forgiveness. Dende’s fear of him died with him that day. No man who loved his family as much as he did could be evil. Bulma and Trunks would not love an evil man.

 

Still . . . Vegeta made him uncomfortable. Unlike the good, quiet energy of the Sons, Vegeta’s energy sang out in vibrant discord, sharp-edged with all his pride and ferocity. Dende had time to compose his face into the serene, Guardian expression before the two Saiyans exploded through the veil of clouds like blue meteors. Bulma’s ship was only a few seconds behind.

 

“Hello, Vegeta, Trunks, Bulma. Has . . . has something happened?”

 

 _They rarely visit unless the Earth is seconds from being destroyed,_ he thought dryly, and immediately regretted his uncharitable thoughts.

 

Vegeta grunted in mocking amusement.

 

“Yes, Namek. A two year old Saiyan could have sensed the disturbance earlier,” he said dryly. Irritation chased away Dende’s embarrassment, but he allowed none of it to disrupt his calm demeanor.

 

“When I was meditating I thought I felt Trunks—Future Trunks,” he clarified at the youth’s inquisitive look.

 

“It was his ship that showed up all right, but Trunks wasn’t inside. It was his daughter, Rudaiya.” Bulma explained.

 

“Daughter?” Dende repeated, then focused on the savor of Trunks’ energy. He pushed his mind toward the ground, then felt a blazing presence in the Capsule Corp. compound. He sent out a gentle tendril of thought and was overwhelmed by the death and anguish that swirled like a hurricane in her mind.

 

Empathy filled the young Guardian’s heart and he gentled the storm of her nightmares, replacing them with the tender lap of the sea over her toes as she walked with another Saiyan—burly with a mane of black hair. He felt her relax, slipping deeper into healing slumber. The mind-touch held a strange, one-sided intimacy; Dende absorbed her memories and emotions while she slept on. When he disengaged himself form her mind, he frowned at the ring of Z warriors.

 

“You needn’t explain. I’ve touched her thoughts. Come, Mr. Popo made some tea and biscuits. We have much to discuss.”

<^>

Mr. Popo’s biscuits were light and fluffy, and, drenched with butter and honey, ambrosial. Trunks shoveled two into his mouth as he listened to Mom and Dende argue. Man, what a day!

The girl—his daughter from another time, that was a creepy thought—was a puzzle. As he worked through the implications of her existence, he couldn’t help wonder who her mother was, and what she was like. Goten was already slavering over Bra, young as he was, and Gohan too, had found Videl early. None of the girls he knew had a fraction of Rudaiya’s fiery spirit, and Trunks found it was something he wanted.

 

“—be a problem,” Dende was saying and Trunks shoved away thoughts of girls guiltily. He should be helping Mom and Dende figure out how to help Rudaiya.

 

“My grandfather Moori is Elder now. He strengthened Porunga after Frieza’s attack. Namek’s eternal dragon can now wish back multiple people.”

 

“Great! Then we just plot a course for Namek and---” Mom began. Papa paused chewing long enough to growl: “Not so fast, woman. If we wish them back, they will just be decimated by the _Sorva_. Why not wish the _Sorva_ away?”

 

“That’s not a bad idea, Vegeta, but what about Daiya? What would she go home to? A destroyed home, a dead family, an empty life.”

 

“But if she wishes them back and they die again . . . hey, what about me?” Trunks put in, then clarified, “the other me. He was killed by Cell. He can’t be wished back, can he?” Papa’s eyebrows drew together in an intense frown, before swiveling his piercing gaze to Dende.

A long silence stretched as Dende considered, antennae twitching in agitation. Finally, he set down his cup with great deliberation and laced his fingers.

 

“No, Trunks cannot be wished back. Not by Shenron. Hmm, this is a predicament. Porunga could wish back Trunks, but then Rudaiya would have to wait until Earth’s dragonballs were viable again . . . What a mess. Allow me to contact my grandfather. Together we might be able to find a workable solution.”

 

“How long will it take?” Papa demanded. Dende shrugged.

 

“I don’t know. Why?”

 

Papa made a short, inarticulate grunt in the back of his throat.

 

“Because according to Rudaiya, my other self is all that’s left against the _Sorva_! If I die, then you’ll have a hell of a lot more people to wish back! Not even eternal dragons can restore every weakling fool in the entire Universe!”

 

Dende seemed unperturbed.

 

“If that is the case,” he said calmly, “then I will contact Namek immediately. Stay for as long as you like.”

 

With the rustle of robes and the tap of his staff, the Guardian of Earth disappeared around the corner.

<^>

As Rudaiya dreamed, she heard the gods arguing.

 

 _We cannot do this! The dragonballs have been abused, repairing every catastrophe, resurrecting every loved one. If you ask me, they are more trouble than they’re worth!_ cackled an irate voice, and in her mind’s eye, she saw a wizened, purple-skinned creature. She wanted badly to hit him. A blue man with small sunglasses answered him, his voice oddly warbling, as if he spoke with his mouth full.

 

 _Son Goku and the other Saiyans’ power have done our dirty work for many years now. The Universe—both this one and this girl’s timeline—have been saved countless times by them. To refuse this girl’s wish would be cruel and hypocritical._ Rudaiya smirked at this. _You’re damn right, little man. Without us, Supreme Kai would be shit out of luck._

 

 _Nonsense, King Kai! I agree with the Old Kai,_ said a booming bass voice. In her mind, she saw a man seated at an immense desk with horns and a beard. _What you’re asking is impossible, Dende. Porunga and Shenron cannot grant wishes outside the power of their creator. It is one of the tenants of the dragonballs._

 

_Using them disrupts the natural evolution of the Universe! Just because one Earthling discovered time travel---_

 

 _We understand, Venerated Kai, thank you for your input. It was my other self that sent her here, so the disruption was intended._ Sighed a gentle voice that she recognized as Supreme Kai’s. Rudaiya saw the Guardian of Earth standing tall before this council of heavenly beings, firm and unyielding. The elfin form of Supreme Kai leaned forward, meeting Dende’s eye earnestly.

 

_King Yemma is correct on one count—the dragonballs cannot exceed their parameters. Rudaiya must make do with what the dragons can give._

 

Panic bordering on madness clawed at Rudaiaya’s belly. What did they mean ‘parameters?’ Did that mean she couldn’t wish back her family? As Zul-sensei and Grandfather had taught her, she reached within herself for the stillness of meditation. The force of fear and anger fairly burned her astral self onto the plane of heaven. She brushed past Dende and took a battle stance before the council of gods. Her eyes bored into each face in turn, daring them to challenge her.

 

“This is unacceptable!” she shouted, “I have fought too hard and traveled too far to be denied now! My Grandfather is alone, fighting enemies beyond number, and you prattle on about the Universe’s natural order? What order lies in the chaos the _Sorva_ have created? My family has destroyed the Cold Empire that ruled the galaxy with a fist of iron. _We_ have kept the peace. Not you. And you,” she pointed savagely at Supreme Kai, astral tail lashing in agitation, “you give my Grandfather riddles on the secret to our salvation: Two will be one, Geta and Goten, but the _sun_? What sun? Our sun, Gohan, our brightest light, was made a slave to those damned fucking spiders! They _killed_ him! They used him like a puppet and killed Chi-Chi, Kakkarot and Bra! Tell me, _what was the point of it?_ We train until our bones split, we build until our fingers bleed, we sacrifice and fight for what? To be decimated? IT’S NOT FAIR!”

 

Ki, no, not ki, here on an astral plane, but then the swelling tide of her anger pushed out, washing over the gods in raw waves. She stood trembling, daring them to push her. For a long time, there was nothing but the burning thrust of her thoughts chasing her in circles and she wanted to tear her hair out.

 

At last, Dende put a gentle green hand on her shoulder and she relaxed slightly. In some vague, rational part of her mind, she marveled that the gods had not smote her where she stood for her impertinent words.

 

Supreme Kai steepled his slender purple fingers and looked down on her with such unutterable compassion that the lava of her anger that bubbled from within the secret recesses of her soul began to cool.

 

“Your mother taught you as _kahntor_ , did she not, Rudaiya?” asked Supreme Kai. Bemused, Rudaiya looked at him in askance.

 

“I don’t see what this has to do with--” she protested.

 

“Humor me,” he cut in, the slightest hint of steel in his tone.

 

“Yes, she did teach me. Why?” she snapped, folding her arms over her chest in perfect imitation of her grandfather.

 

“No doubt she told you of your namesake, the Queen Rudaiya, bonded mate of King Vegeta the fourteenth. Did she ever tell you the meaning of that name? It is old—it comes from a language older even than Saiyago.”

 

Something expectant rang in the air, hushed and waiting. Rudaiya frowned; frustrated that she was missing some vital point. She wished Gran was here.

 

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

 

“Rudaiya means ‘sun,’ child,” the Old Kai said gently, all his earlier bluster quieted by her explosive speech. Shock detonated in her skull, rendering her speechless.

 

 _Sun . . . then that must mean . . ._ she looked uncertainly up at Supreme Kai, pointing to her chest. He nodded. Confusion and humility stripped away her pride and ferocity. Tears fell from her eyes, if an astral projection of her mind could weep.

 

“I don’t understand,” she whispered again, “I’m . . . I’m not . . . Gohan was the good one. I’m proud and selfish and . . .”

 

Supreme Kai interrupted her. 

 

“You were indeed right about Vegeta and Goten being the two. But _you_ are the sun, Rudaiya, not Gohan. You have your father’s bravery and your mother’s loyalty. You have the power of the Saiyans in you and your honor is true and strong.” With an inquiring wave of his hand, two dragons, magnificent and glittering with eyes as red as blood, rose above the floating gods.

 

“Tell me, Rudaiya, what would you do to restore your world?” asked King Kai. Her blue eyes scanned each face, before at last fastening on Supreme Kai’s. Emotion rose up, resting in a hard knot in her throat.

 

There was no hesitation. No questions. No fear.

 

“Anything. Everything. Just tell me what I have to do,” she choked.

<^>

Bulma padded up the stairs, heading up to the guest room where Rudaiya was sleeping. She was beginning to worry. The Saiyan girl had been asleep for over 24 hours, and while she probably needed the sleep after the week she’d had, she should have woken by now. When she asked Vegeta about it, even he seemed worried. That was more than enough to put her on edge.

 

She rapped gently on the door, straining her ears for any hint of movement within. There was no sound. Twisting the knob, she opened the door, silhouetted by the golden light of the hall. Her shadow seemed distorted, looming across the dark carpet.

 

“Rudaiya . . . honey?” the tray of food at the foot of the bed was untouched. Her Earth clothes were folded in a neat pile on a nearby chair and Bulma smiled slightly. So sleeping naked was a Saiyan thing. Some of the tension in Bulma relaxed at the steady rise and fall of her chest. An ugly part of her had feared that the stresses of battle had been too much for her. A silly notion, she realized. She was Saiyan, and not so easily dispatched.

 

Bulma knelt beside the bed, tenderly combing back a strand of silky black hair from Rudaiya’s forehead. Her hair had her father’s—and grandmother’s—texture, thick, lustrous and silky. The ebony color must have come from her Saiyan mother, Sansai. Bulma wished she could have met her.

 

“Rudaiya . . . sweetheart, you need to wake up. I have some dinner downstairs for you, if Trunks and Vegeta haven’t finished it off . . .” Bulma trailed off. Saiyans were light sleepers. It took nothing more than a change in her breathing pattern for Vegeta to wake, and how many times had she woken Trunks just by passing by his room?

Something was wrong.

Bulma resorted to more direct methods, shaking and shouting her. No response. Whipped into a terror now, Bulma shouted, “Vegeta! Trunks!”

 

They were there in seconds, tense and ready for battle.

 

“What is it, woman?” Vegeta growled, looking from Bulma’s terrified expression to Rudaiya’s inert form with something akin to concern in his sharp black gaze.

 

“She won’t wake up! I’ve shook and shouted at her . . . she’s breathing, and her heart is strong, but . . .” Bulma trailed off helplessly. The two of them scowled at each other for a handful of seconds. Exasperated, Bulma snapped, “Can’t you use your Saiyan telepathy on her?”

 

Vegeta nodded sharply and sat beside the sleeping Saiyan girl. Trunks and Bulma hovered.  Vegeta closed his eyes and was silent and still for several moments. Bulma watched his brow furrow deeper, then his eyes snapped open.

 

“I can’t reach her. Something is . . . blocking me. Strongest I’ve ever felt.”

 

“What can we do?” Trunks asked. Vegeta rose with barely leashed energy and leaned one shoulder against the wall.

 

“Wait.”

Their vigil did not last long. Rudaiya awoke within the hour. When the three of them peppered her with questions, she smiled. Bulma’s heart hitched. The smile was Trunks’. The expression was so foreign on her stern visage that Bulma’s questions died on her tongue. How could there be so much sorrow and happiness mixed in one smile? 

 

“I’ve spoken with the Kais. They are going to restore my home.”

 

Vegeta glared down at his nose at her, sensing there was more.

 

“And?” he growled, agitated and affectionate all at once. She moved to rise, then remembered her state of dishabille. Trunks cleared his throat and turned his back. Snorting, Vegeta did likewise and Bulma helped her dress.

 

“There is a . . . price.”

 

Dread clenched around Bulma’s heart. How was it possible that she loved this girl already?

 

“What is it?” she asked in a small voice. Rudaiya’s knowing blue eyes found hers and without a word, embraced her fiercely. When she pulled away, her face was etched with pain and determination, sorrow and sacrifice. It sat ill on such a young face, so full of promise. 

 

“I’m sorry, Gran. The dragons can’t restore all of my world by themselves so I have to . . . I’m leaving. I’m trading my life and my ki to the Kais for a couple hundred years, give or take a decade.” A smile without humor twisted her lips.

 

“Saiyans are long lived; maybe a few of them will be left alive when I return.”

 

Stunned silence reigned in the dimly lit bedroom for minutes.

 

“What about your family . . . your mate? You would abandon them?” Vegeta demanded, his emotions churning like a fierce storm. A spasm of pain registered on her face at the mention of Turles.

 

“Our bond is not like the others. If I am cut off from him, he will not die.”

 

“There are worse things than death, girl,” Vegeta said hoarsely. She closed her eyes, two tears slipping down her cheeks.

 

“There is no other way, Grandfather.”

 

Bulma clutched Rudaiya to her heart and the next moments were spent in an embrace that encompassed every bittersweet emotion. She flung her arms around Vegeta and kissed Trunks’ mouth.

 

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me. Goodbye.”

<^>

Vegeta’s eyes snapped open. He was home. In his bed in the palace with his mate beside him. How was that possible? Only a moment ago, he had stood hemorrhaging blood and ki in the half-man, half- _oozaru_ Super Saiyan 4 form with _Sorva_ closing in on every side, all the others dead on the ground . . .

 

He rolled onto his side, his breath punched out of him at the sight of his beautiful blue mate. For once, he did not push away the flooding feeling of love and contentment.

 

“Bulma . . .” he whispered, running his fingers through her hair. Sleepy blue eyes opened and a smile curved her cherry red lips. The joy in her eyes sharpened to awareness and she sat up, looking around wildly.

 

“Vegeta! What . . . how . . .?” she ran a hand through her hair, bewildered.

 

“I don’t know. The last I remember, I was facing the _Sorva_ as Super Saiyan 4. I thought perhaps you had learned to reset Time, woman,” he said dryly. She looked around.

 

“This is the palace. The palace has been restored too? Come on! Let’s see if--”

 

Vegeta leapt up. He stretched out his thoughts and touched each mind. With a rare laugh, he kissed his woman.

 

“They’re alive! All of them!”

<^>

His joy was nearly complete. Miraculously, through no method that they knew of, they were alive. It was as if the _Sorva_ had never been. His Tousan and Kassan were alive, their home restored, every nightmare past.

 

There was only one flaw to his happiness, and it was a profound flaw: his mate, the other half of himself was missing. The threads of the bond were dry and inert, and it frightened him.

 

Her parents had not seen her, or her brother, or grandparents . . . as they gathered; terror began to weigh the pit of his stomach.

 

Then, like an angel descending, he saw her. Relief weakened his knees, but then it fled when he realized that she was . . . not quite there. A ghost, a mirage, a transparent specter of the vibrant life of his mate.

 

“Daiya . . .” he asked gently. Her beautiful blue eyes wandered from face to face, relishing their life and health.

 

Then, with tears in her eyes and grief in her voice, she told them the deal she had made, bartering her own soul for their lives.

 

“No. _No._ ” Turles said, parrying the viscous onslaught with a violent exhalation of denial. His voice was the only one raised in protest. The rest were stunned into silence, even King Vegeta.

 

“I don’t regret this. Not for a second. I would suffer this and more to see you all alive. Don’t mourn me Gran, Bra, Mama. Don’t carry hate in your hearts, Grandfather, Papa, Geta. I love you all,” she said softly. Then her blue eyes met his, heartbreakingly beautiful.

 

“I love you,” the ghost-Daiya said.

 

“No. I will not allow this.”

 

“You must.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“I know.” 

 

“Daiya . . .” he pleaded, moving forward to touch her face. His fingers melted straight through. Inwardly, he railed at the gods. Could he not even touch her in their farewell? Even as he said it, she solidified, shifting into corporeal form. She smiled.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered to the air.

 

She moved from loved one to loved one, the shock melting away to grief, and anger, and heart-wrenching sorrow. Gohan wept and clung to her. Her parents formed living walls cradling her between them as they had when she slept within the womb. Geta stifled sobs when she punched his shoulder in a gesture of friendly companionship. They all wrenched every last drop of time in the brief seconds of farewell.

 

She approached him last.

 

“My love . . .” she whispered. With a cry, he cleaved to her, showering her with kisses. He drank in every nuance of her: the taut strength of her, the scent of her skin and hair, the taste of her lips and her tears.

 

“Take me with you . . . take me with you. Don’t leave me alone. I’ll follow you anywhere . . .” he whispered for her ears alone. He heard her drag in a shaky breath, tears dampening the skin of his neck.

 

“Gods, I wish I could.”

 

Resignation chilled the heat of his anger, numbed the potency of his grief.

 

“How long?” he asked.

 

“Three hundred years. Maybe more.” she said bleakly.

 

“Then I will wait. I will wait for you.”

 

The solid feel of her disappeared. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze for one last time.

 

And she was gone.

 


	13. Epilogue

**Planet Vegeta**

**Four Hundred and Seventy-Five Years Later**

 

A lot changed in five hundred years, Rudaiya thought. Planet Vegeta’s cities were larger, the landscape had altered. Her boots crunched on the sandy courtyard as she passed into the shade of the palace. The desert wind scoured her face with airborne particles of sand, but she welcomed it.

 _Home_.

She was home. She flashed through the entire gamut of every conceivable emotion. Housed within flesh again, she acutely felt the churning nervousness in her gut, the thrill of joy singing in her muscles, her ki rising bright and real within her. 

 

Some things stayed the same even after nearly five centuries, she mused with a smile, looking up at the forbidding monolith of the palace. Depicted on the nearest wall, she realized with a shock, was her, ablaze in Super Saiyan gold facing off against the _Sorva_. Beneath was a caption of symbols reading: **_Rudaiya, Princess of Saiyans, Hero Without Fear_**. In the corner, she saw who commissioned it. Trunks Ou. Shock disappeared into an overwhelming tide of love. _Papa. Mama. Gohan. Geta. Turles._ The cadence of names and faces sluiced over her and she quickened her pace, eager to see them again. 

 

She had spent so long on the incorporeal plane; gravity felt oddly heavy, time passing with bewildering swiftness. The removal from Time had stopped aging her, so she looked as she had almost five hundred years prior: eighteen standard years. Daiya reached within her mind and let out a loud call.

**_I’m here!_ **

 

It took only moments before they were all pouring out, the loved ones she knew plus all the others who had come in her absence. Grandfather and Gran, their hair bleached white, Mama and Papa, brilliant in their kingly armor, Gohan, Geta and Goten, Bra and Zorn and their families . . . and Turles. A lot changed in five hundred years. He seemed bigger, fiercer, stronger, with scars peppering his body from battles she hadn’t shared, his mane of hair peppered with threads of silver. His eyes softened. He took her in his arms and she smiled.

 

A lot changed, but a lot stayed the same.

 

**Author's Note:**

> At some point I will get back in touch with FireyPen37 and ask if she wishes her name to be associated at all with this work before I orphan it. Comment and kudos away - maybe one day she will look up her own story and see it.


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